The Writing on the Wall
by Holly4
Summary: Spike embarks on a journey through the Gates of Hell to rescue the one he loves, but in order to save her, he must risk losing himself.
1. Chapter 1

**The Writing on the Wall**

Author: Holly  
Rating: Adults Only (For language, violent imagery, disturbing content, and sexual situations)  
Timeline: Post-_The Gift,_ AU.  
Summary: There was no body to bury. There was no funeral. There was nothing but the three rules and the knowledge that a thousand years of torment was nothing compared to a world without her in it. Spike embarks on a journey through the Gates of Hell to rescue the one he loves, but in order to save her, he must risk losing himself.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. They are being used out of respect and affection, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter One**

He'd wondered often over the past four days where he would be now if he'd been the one who could read the stars. How it would be if he'd had the foresight to see what was ahead. If he'd known the decision she would make. Would such realization have guided his feet, quickened his wit; would he have fought harder, risked more, sacrificed all of himself to save Dawn if he'd known what Buffy would do to save the world?

He saw it so clearly. Every night. A thousand different ways. Things he could have done different. Things he could have done _right._ Things he could have done to save her.

To hold her to the ground rather than see her fall through the sky.

Spike had no answers.

Eventually, he supposed, the screaming around him would stop. He had not the luxury. Silence only made the rage grow louder—only furthered his descent into a place from which he might never emerge.

He hadn't eaten since she jumped. Nothing could tempt him—not when he felt sick at the scent of blood. Not when the thought of living in a world where Buffy did not walk made his demon yearn for sunlight. The others didn't understand. They couldn't. Hunger wasn't something he felt—it was just another pain, and when his entire being was consumed in agony, it became increasingly simple to ignore.

Yet even if his will to live had faded, he knew he could not bow out. Giving up was not an option—not when the journey had yet to begin. She might be gone but she was not out of reach, and he had to find her. He _had_ to find her. He owed her so much, more than he could ever repay, and right now, the bare minimum he could offer was tracing her footsteps to find where she had fallen. He had to find her, and if he failed in that, he certainly wouldn't fail in protecting what she'd left behind. The world she'd left would not collapse on his watch.

But that was beside the point, because Spike was going to get her back.

The pavement felt heavy under his boots, and the stars all but blinded him. He ran until his surroundings melted into a shapeless blur. He carried on up the familiar path to Revello Drive, his chest lacking the tightening he'd once experienced upon being so near the place where she lived. He passed the tree he'd made his home on many a night—nights with his eyes glued to her bedroom as his mind fabricated fantasy after fantasy with which to torment a yearning that would never be fulfilled. Spike's throat tightened but he didn't pause; he stomped up the steps and approached the front door. The door through which she'd invited him the last night. Where she'd looked at him like a man rather than a beast.

She wasn't there to open the door for him tonight. She wasn't anywhere.

She was gone.

_Buffy was gone. _

Spike inhaled sharply, his chest rattling, his heart screaming a nameless rage. He didn't have to knock. He didn't have to wait. They knew he was coming.

He'd been by every one of the last four nights. He'd been by every night since she jumped.

And he asked the same question every time he crossed the threshold.

"Have you found her yet?"

The demand tore from his throat before the door latched behind him. Giles and Willow glanced up from where they sat on the living room sofa, jointly poring over the ancient volumes of who-bloody-cared-what. Every second they spent reading was a second during which Buffy suffered. She was out there somewhere—lost, screaming, pounding on the gateways of some nameless hell, and her friends were _reading_ about it.

Giles sighed tiredly, removing his glasses. "Spike—"

A growl tickled the vampire's throat. He took a menacing step forward. "Have you found her?"

"Anya and Xander aren't back yet," Willow offered. "We're waiting—"

"That's bloody great, but the longer you wait—"

"We know what's at stake, Spike," Giles began, his voice exhausted. "We're doing the best we can."

They'd had this argument for four nights now: a continuous loop without conclusion. Spike understood why the old man was tired but did not sympathize. Buffy wasn't resting. Her friends searched and prodded and ate good food and slept in comfortable beds. Buffy couldn't. Buffy was gone. And her friends were _waiting. _

A maniacal giggle bubbled off the vampire's lips. "The best? _This_ is your best?"

"Need I remind you _again_ that we do not answer to you?" the watcher said sternly. "And you are not the only one who cares about Buffy. We have been searching all bloody day. Tell me, Spike, what have _you_ been doing?"

Spike snarled, closing another space between them. "Not sleeping, if that's what you're hinting at, Watcher," he growled. "I haven't slept since she jumped."

The fire in the old man's eyes faded a bit, but he didn't back down. "I know," he conceded. "None of us have."

"Remember what we decided last night?" Willow piped up, her expression falling into a kind, sympathetic smile which did nothing to conceal her own fatigue. "Anya has a few contacts left. A big oogly eye thing, and some others, if that falls through. She had to hunt down an old demon friend of hers to get access, but when Xander called an hour ago, things were promising. We're just waiting now."

"Have you eaten?" Giles asked suddenly, reminding the vampire, if only for a second, of his father. "You look terrible."

Strange how quickly long-dead human shame could seep into his veins. Spike's eyes found the ground, anger receding. "No."

"She wouldn't want that."

That was a matter of opinion, but the vampire didn't feel like arguing over his diet. Instead, he turned to Willow, tension rolling off his shoulders. "Where's Dawn?"

"She's with Tara," the redhead answered, rubbing her arms. "You're not the only one with an eating disorder."

"The Bit's starving herself?"

Willow nodded somberly. "We didn't know until we found her dinner dumped on the back porch. She's been taking food up to her room and tossing it out the window."

"Why?"

"Why aren't you eating?" Giles countered, brows arching.

"Because I can't," Spike replied with a clenched jaw. "Every time I open a bag of blood, my stomach turns."

Willow wiggled a bit. "Well," she said. "It _is_ a little ookie."

The vampire sighed and looked away, his eyes falling on the stairs where she'd stood that last night. Just five nights ago. Her eyes warm but distant, face fortified with determination. Had she known then? Had she known what she was going to do? What she was going to sacrifice?

Had she known she would never climb those stairs again?

"I'm going to repair the bot," Willow said suddenly, jerking Spike's attention away from Buffy's ghost. "We decided that after…you know… left. Some of her wires were fried, but—"

"What the sodding—"

Giles exhaled deeply. "Spike—"

"That thing is a bleeding abomination! It shouldn't—"

"We agree then," the watcher said, "but Willow made a good point. As far as the demon community is aware, Buffy is alive and well. They didn't see her—"

"Disappear." Spike looked away before his eyes misted. The pain in his chest expanded, creeping over his long-dead heart and nearly sending him to his knees. He didn't know how he stood without shaking. His bones rattled and his muscles felt inches away from slipping off entirely.

It had been the single most devastating scene he'd ever witnessed. As a demon, he'd always understood devastation even if he didn't feel remorse, and he saw it in the faces of countless figures coloring his past. Children he rendered orphans. Women he turned into widows. Mothers crying over their fallen sons, washing blood off their hands and crying out to a god who had long forgotten them. That had been devastation he saw but didn't understand—devastation with which he didn't sympathize. _Couldn't_ sympathize…until now. Until he saw Buffy jump. She jumped just as the world had threatened to rip itself apart. Just as dimensions collided with dimensions—as demons and dragons crashed and fought, ripping into each other through air-turned-static, becoming something through which true monsters could tear.

Buffy had jumped and the world had righted itself.

Only she hadn't landed. Her body had fallen…fallen…

And she'd disappeared. She was simply gone.

_Gone._

"Until we can find her," Giles said softly, "the bot is our best shot at ensuring the Hellmouth remains under a slayer's watch. Willow is going to repair the damage it sustained so it can retain some usefulness. It's temporary, Spike…until we can get her back. Believe me, no one wants that, as you so accurately put it, abomination on a scrap heap as much as I. But we should utilize what we have until…until we recover Buffy."

Spike glanced down with heavy eyes. Perhaps it was Giles's uninhibited use of absolutes—the firm confidence that Buffy _would_ be found, no matter the cost. No matter where she'd fallen. No matter what distances they had to travel in order to drag her back into this world. There was no room for _ifs._ Buffy would know this house again. She would sleep in her bed. She would fumble over cooking supplies in her kitchen. She would scream at Dawn when they were a hall's length apart. It would happen. It _would._

Giles sighed, sliding his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to warm up some blood," he offered. "Buffy took to keeping some in the refrigerator."

Spike's head flew up. "What?"

"Toward the end," Willow confirmed with a nod, her eyes shaded with sadness she somehow kept from her voice. "When Glory…she told me and Tara she was considering letting you back in, and she wanted to be prepared."

"Your strength proved to be a major asset," Giles agreed before he disappeared into the shadows, leaving the vampire to bask in revelation.

She'd wanted him back. Before she jumped. Her invitation hadn't been random at all—it hadn't been because the world was ending, or because it was more convenient to collect weapons with two pairs of hands rather than one. She'd wanted it. She'd trusted him enough. _She'd trusted him. _

It was too sweet to be true.

It nearly sent him to his knees.

A part of him had known, of course. He'd seen the change as well as anyone. After the Slayer and her merry band of super-chums risked hide and hair to recover him from the hellgod's penthouse, he'd known something had changed. But not this. Never this. If anything, his time in chains had taught him something valuable. Something he hadn't wanted to accept, but knew all the same. His own shining inadequacies. The knowledge that he wasn't, and never could be, good enough. It was what had kept him from begging to be re-invited in five nights ago. He'd stood warily on the sidelines, watching her move through the house, waiting and hoping, but never truly believing. Never thinking Buffy wanted him back.

And now this. It wasn't how he'd dreamt, of course, but it was what he wanted. The look in her eyes had never died. The gratitude. The warmth. The knowledge of change. She'd witnessed it firsthand. She'd brushed her lips against his bruised mouth after Glory had nearly ripped out his insides. She'd looked at him differently. She'd looked at him like a man.

She'd wanted him back inside her house. She'd trusted him.

The scent of pig's blood warmed the air, and as it had the past few nights, his stomach rolled in disgust. The opposite of hunger, he supposed. Perhaps he was so famished that the thought of nourishment made him feel ill. He didn't know. All he knew was the thought of food sickened him.

Especially when it was served in a mug by one of the men who hated him the most.

"You will undoubtedly play a pivotal role when we locate Buffy," Giles said when he returned. "You, Willow, and Tara are the strongest…assets we have at our disposal."

Spike's brows perked, studying the mug's contents as though the watcher had laced the blood with arsenic. Not that it would do any good, aside from give his aching stomach a good wallop. "Never figured you'd be one to admit it."

"You care about Buffy."

"I _love_ Buffy."

Willow pursed her lips. Giles's eyes darkened, but he didn't object. He didn't need to object. Spike knew well the watcher's views on vampires and what they could or couldn't feel. The same garbage he'd passed onto his protégés until fairytales became the truth. While a few shining examples served as the exceptions to prove the rule, Angelus most notably, there weren't many vampires Spike knew who lacked a side reserved for nature's softer sensations.

And yet, despite everything, despite all Spike had sacrificed, despite what he'd lost, Giles remained adamant that his feelings for Buffy were nothing but infatuation at the root and, most nobly, respect. Love was too human to be felt by a vampire. Vampires, after all, didn't know how to love.

Except vampires had been humans once, and Spike remembered well how love as a human felt.

It felt like this. Like _this,_ only nowhere near as strong.

Ultimately, the battle over semantics fell to a draw. Giles sighed and glanced away. "You care about Buffy," he said again. "And you've made it more than clear you're willing to do whatever it takes to get her back."

"Bloody right I am."

"Then you will need your strength." He shoved the mug-full of blood into the vampire's hand. "Eat."

Spike sighed, his eyes dropping to the crimson liquid swirling in the ceramic mug. Never had blood seemed less appealing.

_For Buffy._

Another sigh, this one of conviction. "Right," he said, flexing his shoulders. "Bottoms up."

The mug's rim barely brushed his bottom lip when the door flew open, Anya and Xander loudly stumbling in. They were gasping, their eyes bright and wild, hair tussled—a telltale sign of inter-dimension travel. While Spike, personally, hadn't made a trip into a different realm in a lifetime or so, he well-remembered how disorienting the ride could be.

His dead heart leapt.

Giles turned. Willow bounded to her feet. "Anything?" the redhead demanded. "Did you find anything?"

"Oh we found something," Xander agreed.

Spike stepped forward. "Where is she?"

"It's bad," the watcher said softly. His eyes bounced from the former demon to her companion, the conviction in his voice crippling. It was only then Spike noted the desperation in Xander's eyes. The defeat crushing Anya's shoulders. It was only then he understood.

Xander nodded. "It's way bad."

"We found Buffy," Anya said. "In Hell."

There had never been a more profound silence. Sound faded in favor of a high-pitched buzzing. Spike's head grew light, his legs buckling, the mug in his hands toppling messily to the ground. He saw it shatter but didn't hear a thing. His senses were assaulted with a thousand wild distractions, and the ground spun too quickly to gain balance.

Long drones slowly replaced the hum.

"That's not possible," Willow objected, her voice shrill. "That's _not_ possible!"

Spike reached for the frame supporting the junction of the living room and the entryway. His legs were about to fail him completely.

"It's possible," Anya replied. "She's in Hell. One she made."

"One _she_ made?" Giles echoed. "Buffy wouldn't do anything like—"

"She didn't do it intentionally."

Xander sighed, his head hanging, emotion racking his body. "It gets worse."

"Way worse," the former demon agreed. She waited for a second for her boyfriend to continue, and proceeded on her own when he did not. "The Eye told us…well, none of this is good. Humans don't have the faculties to withstand Hell. Nothing living does. Often they make substitutions for things they can't understand. Granted, not many humans have ever found themselves in Hell…or not Hell as Judeo-Christian tradition depicts. Humans don't go to Hell—their souls do. Nothing human survives."

Willow released a trembling sigh. "I don't understand."

"If it was only Buffy's soul we were worried about, her body would have been left behind," Anya explained somberly. "Since all of her vanished, we can only assume she didn't die."

"She's alive."

"In Hell," Xander supplied, looking down quickly. The scent of tears hit the air, but Spike honestly didn't know who'd shed them. After a few difficult seconds, the boy continued, "The Eye said…God…I can't wrap my mind around this. Buffy in Hell. She's the Chosen Warrior of the Powers…how can they allow it?"

The look on Giles's face was damn near crushing. He had to fight to remain standing, moving only when Willow led him to the stairs so he might have a place to sit.

"And we don't know how to get there," Anya added. "Self-made hells don't have entrance rituals. And even if they did, there's no way to tell if it was Buffy we'd pull out."

Willow looked up imploringly. "Anya, please—"

"She's just telling you what we learned," Xander snapped, a flash of anger blazing in his eyes. "Buffy…she's alive, wherever she is. And she…God, we don't know how long it's been. We don't know what she's…she might be being tortured, like Angel. Or—"

"Or it could be worse."

"So what do we do?"

Conversation halted. All eyes fell upon the vampire. Funny. Spike hadn't realized he'd spoken until his voice faded. He glanced up slowly, not trusting his muscles to budge or his eyes to keep the tears clamoring for freedom at bay. It no longer mattered. These people had seen him cry rivers. Cry oceans. A few more tears were nothing.

_Buffy in Hell._

A concept he couldn't wrap his mind around. The words lost their meaning.

_Oh God. _

"We don't have a lot of options," Anya said, sighing.

"That's nice," Spike replied. "What do we do?"

Xander looked up slowly. "Look—"

"We don't bloody well leave her there, do we? You heard what the bird said—Buffy's _alive._ She's alive in some…fuck all, you can't seriously consider leaving her…do you gits have any idea what Hell is like?"

"Do you?" Giles asked. It wasn't a glib question. When Spike met his eyes, the watcher's palpable need for reassurance would have crushed him were he not already broken.

And for a second, for a brief second, Spike wanted to lie. It would be easy. He was a vampire; he'd made a career of lying. But he couldn't bring himself to do it now, even when the truth was far crueler. "No," he replied softly. "But…she's alive, Rupert."

"For how long?" Willow asked. "H-how can we be sure she won't—"

"Living victims are difficult to come by," Anya said, her tone indicative of one trying to comfort, though one glance around the room would have revealed a massive failure in tactic. "She won't die anytime soon. Their rules are different than ours. Besides, as a slayer, she might be impervious to death by longevity."

The redhead frowned. "What?"

"Well, there's never been a slayer to live long enough for anyone to determine whether or not she experiences the human physiological aging process. Being a warrior to protect the world from immortal beings might make her immortal as well." Anya shrugged. "When I was a vengeance demon, Halfrek and I had a bet with a coven of purist vampires to see how long we could cage a living slayer. Unfortunately, once we captured the Slayer, one of the purist vampires proved to be not-so-pure, and—"

Xander weakly held up a hand. "Anya?"

The former demon broke off with a small smile. Not apologetic so much as understanding.

"Fascinating, really," Spike drawled. "But it doesn' help. How do we get to Buffy?"

"Gaining entrance into a self-made Hell?" Anya sighed, her head rolling back. "No one's done it before. The Eye said it's practically impossible."

The vampire nodded harshly. "Practically, but not entirely."

"Entrance has to be earned by the guardians of the Hell she created." Anya paused. "Every dimension has a guardian—most with really lax rules on how to hop in and out. But this one's special. Buffy's human. She's alive. And she's the Slayer. Earning access won't be easy, and even then, if you're able to reach her…"

Spike's nostrils flared. "I'll reach her."

"Who says it's you?" Xander demanded.

"Because it has to be."

Of that the vampire was certain. It had to be him. These children couldn't fathom Hell. Couldn't begin to imagine the horrors lurking below their feet. If someone was to break from one world into the next, he was the best contender. The only bloody contender.

He was her Champion.

"We don't know anything about these dimensions yet," Giles said, fighting to his feet. "Beyond what Anya has said. We need to research before we rush to conclusions."

Research. Bloody research. Research while Buffy suffered.

Spike's demon growled, and he turned away before the chip could fire.

"We don't have a choice," the watcher implored. Not that he needed Spike's approval, but there was something in his voice that begged it all the same. "We might only have the one chance, and we can't bugger this up."

A long pause. Spike glanced up and shivered.

_If he closed his eyes he would hear her screams. _

His mind was determined to torment.

"Right," he said at last. "Right…let's see what we can find."

The words were without feeling. He said them to appease the others.

To make it easier when they realized he was their only hope at getting her back.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Thank you all so much for the amazing response to Chapter 1. I really can't express how much it means to me, especially since this story has been on the backburner so long…it's surreal seeing it come to life, and even more so to see it so well-received, but trust me, in the best way possible. You all fueled my muse enough to crank out another chapter in record time. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

And of course, thanks again to my irreplaceable betas: **justsue**, **meganpeta**, **elizabuffy**, **dusty273**, **spikeslovebite**, and **therealmccoy1**. You guys are amazing.

**Chapter Two**

He saw her burning.

It wasn't real. Even in the midst of a dream, he knew the difference between fantasy and reality. However, knowledge could not prevent the subconscious from twisting in agony. Buffy torn apart by fire. Buffy's flame-licked arms reaching for rescue that wouldn't come. Buffy's tormented eyes pleading with him to find her. To pay penance for failing her at the Tower by finding her, no matter the cost.

She was ripped by fire. Burning. Burning. And he couldn't reach her. He saw her, felt her, but couldn't reach.

Couldn't reach.

"You shouldn't be here."

It was the truth. Hell was the last place to seek a Champion. Buffy jumped to save the world, and this was the way the world repaid her. Sending her down to a blistering inferno the likes of which no one before had ever dreamt. It was a special hell. It was her hell. One of her design, her making, her worst nightmares spurred to new life. Did she know the images were fake? Did she see the false prophets for what they were? Was she waiting for him? For anyone? Did she trust them to find her before she lost herself?

Or were they already too late?

"Spike…you shouldn't be here."

Resistance fortified as he tried to pry his eyes open. It had been so long since he rested. However, when will overpowered desire, he found himself staring blearily at a bland, cream ceiling, surrounded by her scent. Her presence. Days old but not forgotten. And he remembered.

Her room. He'd come to her room. And apparently, he'd fallen asleep.

Spike sighed and glanced up. Giles crowded the doorway, his expression stern but non-accusatory. Rather, compassion and understanding beyond anything the vampire had ever received from the man poured from every facet, and in that instant, they understood each other.

"Sorry," Spike murmured, throwing his legs over the side of her bed. "I din't…I don' remember what I needed, but I know I needed something."

A wan smile stretched the watcher's lips. "Apparently what you needed was a nap," he said, indicating the hallway with a nod. "Right now, you're needed downstairs."

"Have you found anythin'?"

"Nothing that inspires much hope, but we are developing an understanding of what…entering this dimension will entail." Giles exhaled a deep breath, his eyes heavy. "The more I learn, the more convinced I am that…there is only one chance, you see. If we're to get her out, we can't dally with semantics. For instance, I need to look upon your lack of a soul as a blessing rather than a burden."

Spike frowned. "How's that?"

"It might be what saves her."

* * *

He wasn't sure whether to be grateful or shocked when Willow shoved a glass of blood under his nose the second his foot hit the bottom step. It wasn't too long ago the witch had threatened to disinvite him from every corner of Sunnydale, detailing the many ways Buffy would kick his ass back to next Thursday if he didn't let up on his obsession. Now she was smiling kindly, her expression sad but hopeful. And she had blood for him. Warm blood. Blood she'd poured because she cared.

"You're eating," she informed him.

"Am I?"

"I made it myself."

Spike eyed the glass warily. "Smells like swine."

"Well, I didn't open a vein or anything, but I did make with the pouring and the microwave and stuff." She shoved the glass against his chest. "Eat."

A pause. His eyes bounced from the blood to her face and back again. God, nothing in the world could have prepared him for this. He'd had a family once. Angelus. Darla. Drusilla, yet they had never been kind. Well, except Dru when she could manage it, but the eldest in his family didn't try to conceal their disdain for him and their disapproval at his inclusion in the clan.

He wasn't accustomed to concern over his well-being. It was something he hadn't experienced since the days when his heart pumped blood. Since his mother entertained his poetry. And now Willow, the best mate of the girl he loved, was looking at him with compassion and respect.

Respect from a human. Respect from one of Buffy's best friends.

It wasn't until recently Spike had found himself in the precarious position of not wanting to disappoint someone; Buffy, of course, for whom he would have done anything…though even that hadn't been enough. Offering anything and everything hadn't been enough. He hadn't wanted to fail her. He hadn't wanted to disappoint.

And now Willow, whom he hadn't realized until this second that he liked. Liking Buffy—loving Buffy—had been revolutionary enough, but even though he understood it, even though he'd made peace with it, he hadn't been prepared to extend his regard to her friends. There was Dawn and Joyce, both of whom he loved as his own family…but without their relationship to Buffy, they were just two people in a world of millions. He didn't want to like Willow or anyone else. They were a means to an end. Means to saving Buffy.

God, it'd be so much easier if he could convince his twisted mind that was the truth.

Spike sighed heavily, eyes glued to the cup pressed against his chest. "Don' know if I can," he replied.

"You almost did earlier."

"Yeah, an' then I didn't."

"Well, you're gonna try." Willow smiled brightly, but the hard determination in her eyes screamed it wasn't an option. "Go ahead."

Spike looked at her a minute longer before raising the glass to his lips. And instead of the disgust he expected, he all but tripped over himself in relief. Warm and thick, coppery and delicious. Absolute perfection. His stomach growled and the demon purred, though not loud, and the pain riddling his bones solidified at last to distinguish something he hadn't felt since the Tower. Hunger. He remembered hunger. It returned from nowhere—hunger empowered by determination. Perhaps it was the knowledge he needed strength. Perhaps it was starvation. He didn't know—all he knew was one drop had him aching for more. The bones in his face shifted without warning, fangs clinking against the rim as his jaw opened wider, gulping thunderous mouthfuls. Never before had pig's blood been so delicious. When all that was left was a red-caked glass, he found himself licking the insides. Eager, ravenous, desperate for more.

"Looks like someone wants seconds."

He nodded eagerly and thrust the glass back into her hands. "Please."

Willow made a face. "Eww. Not your waitress. Blood's in the fridge."

"Thought you were bein' all hospitable."

"I was. Don't you remember me giving you the glass?" She smiled and turned toward the living room. "We have some stuff to go over."

Spike nodded, dipping a finger inside the cup and running it along the bottom. "Blood can wait," he replied somberly. "What's going on?"

The answer came from Giles's voice rather than Willow's as the watcher materialized from behind. "We have been researching hell dimensions all day," he said softly. "And while there are—"

"All day?" Spike frowned and whirled to face him. "How long did I sleep?"

His answer came with a grim smile. "You went upstairs last night."

"A whole bloody day?"

"You needed it," Willow interjected swiftly. "And Dawn insisted—"

"You let me sleep while Buffy's—"

"You needed your rest," Giles affirmed, his shoulders dropping. "The more we research, the more I'm convinced of it. There might be millions of hell dimensions, but they all say the same thing."

Spike arched a brow. "An' that's worth letting me snooze?"

Their scents hit him before Xander's voice tickled the air. He and Anya traipsed into the living room from the kitchen, joined at the hip as always. It wasn't a huge surprise; a good apocalypse typically made people cling harder to those around them. The fact that the boy and his demon bride were already inseparable only made their codependency more apparent.

"I still say it's a crap idea and we need to look harder."

Giles sighed hard. "Xander…"

"This is the one shot we have at getting her back and we're going to trust—"

"Yes, we're going to trust Spike."

The vampire blinked and turned again. "Oh. So the lot of you came to the conclusion that I was right after all, is that it?" He bulldozed the watcher with a hard look. "It has to be me."

There was no hesitance—only recognition. "Yes."

Xander waved a hand. "You still haven't convinced me that we shouldn't all saddle up and go in together. This is Buffy we're talking about."

"Yes, which is precisely why Spike must go alone."

"It's bogus."

Anya heaved a deep breath and smiled apologetically. "I tried talking to him," she said with uncharacteristic modesty.

A still beat settled over the room. And though irritated, Spike couldn't find it within himself to begrudge Xander his prejudice. The boy cared about Buffy. He did. He was the proverbial big brother, and he didn't want anyone going near his sister without his say so. The fact that Spike was Giles's number one candidate sure didn't sweeten matters, but even if he weren't the obvious option, Xander would complain about anyone going after the Slayer if it meant he was left behind. He wanted to be the rescue. He wanted to make it happen himself.

It was understandable, but ultimately a waste of time. There were things larger than egos at play. "Boy doesn't want me flyin' solo," Spike murmured. "Doesn' sound like there's much in the way of options."

Xander met his eyes. "I just don't think—"

"Right," Giles said sharply. "You don't. This is unlike anything you can imagine. It isn't infiltrating the Initiative or blowing up a school building. This is Hell. Human rules do not apply. Rules—"

"Rules schmools—"

"Exactly the sort of thinking which proves you wouldn't survive."

Harris sighed. "You don't know that—"

"Yes, we do." The finality in Giles's tone wasn't overly severe, yet for whatever reason it didn't earn another objection. There was a considerable pause before the watcher turned back to Spike, determination marking his face. "Dawn's due home in a half hour. We would like to have something to tell her."

"Tara's picking her up," Willow offered. "I kinda feel bad, making her be errand-runny girl, but she's…" She trailed off and blinked, and again the scent of tears slammed into the air. It was commonplace now, and no one questioned her. "She's…Dawn lost her sister and her mom in…and Tara, with her mom. She's just feeling extra…maternal."

Xander cleared his throat. "You're not making her do anything she doesn't want to, Will. She practically guards Dawn's room at night."

"Yeah, but she misses all the Scooby stuff."

"Being there for Dawn is the best thing she can do right now," Giles reasoned softly, though there was a darkness in his eyes Spike wagered only he could see. The part of the old man that had told Buffy repeatedly before they headed into the final battle that killing the girl was the only means of saving the world. The part which had screamed at her, begged her to see reason. To realize, no matter the memories, that Dawn was not her true sister. Buffy Summers had no sister. She never had. Not until a group of holy gits decided to change the rules.

Buffy had threatened to kill anyone who stood between her and Dawn. And she meant it.

Chip or no chip, that crusade had become Spike's. And he couldn't help but wonder if the watcher regretted his callousness.

Or perhaps he regretted his own failure at making Buffy understand.

It didn't matter. Dawn was family to Buffy; therefore she was family to Spike. It was the way it was.

"Every text we've found on hell dimensions has stated the same thing," Giles continued. "Human souls are entirely too fragile to withstand Hell. The very strongest go mad within a few seconds, and spend eternity attempting to piece together fragments of themselves in order to remember who they are. Buffy's…situation is rather unique."

"Because she's still alive," Anya offered. "In Hell."

Spike's heart twisted and his stomach gurgled. Perhaps eating had been a bad idea after all.

"Because she's still alive," the watcher agreed solemnly. He looked as ill as the vampire felt. "She…the state of her soul while encased in a human body…we don't know what effect that will have. We know the impact it had on Angel, but he had a demon to rationalize what he saw and experienced. Buffy has…nothing."

Spike's jaw clenched. "An' she's still there. I don' see why we're standing around here chatting if you kids have decided I'm the one for the job." He waved a hand. "All demon, no soul."

Giles pursed his lips and nodded. "Precisely."

"What about this business with Buffy making her own Hell," Xander asked, fight gone from his voice. "I still…I mean, I know she's there and she made it, but…I don't get why."

Willow nodded, motioning to the living room, where book after book lay spread across the floor, open to various pages and likely all depicting an interpretation of Hell. "Most Western ideals of Hell are similar in their influence of Christian mythology. In the instance where a living person is lost in Hell—or the equivalent—her mind might…I dunno, piece together what she thinks Hell would look like, making that version of Hell her Hell. Does that make sense?"

There was no immediate response; Harris looked ill. "Way too much."

"So when I get there," Spike said, "I see Buffy's worst nightmares."

"That's just…that's the best theory we can come up with." The redhead sighed, looking, for an instant, very old. "The books don't exactly have an appendix for the living who get sucked into dimensions. But with what Anya and Xander discovered yesterday… Buffy's in a hell of her own making, and not just any old corner of Hell, willy-nilly. One of her own making would be her own fears come to life. So…yeah. She would…the best guess would be…that."

A dark, powerful shudder seized the vampire by the shoulders.

Buffy lost in a sea of her darkest fears.

He had to get to her. He had to get to her _now_.

"How does Spike get in?" Xander asked, though it was very apparent he didn't want the answer.

"The Hellmouth," Giles replied. His eyes were fixed on the vampire. "It's our best bet. And as we are attempting to enter…" He sighed. "It will be difficult earning access."

Spike shrugged. Every nerve in his body twitched with the need to move. The need to run. The need to be anywhere but here. It was the Hellmouth, then. Fine. Didn't bloody matter to him so long as he didn't have to wait for permission before going in. Every second in this reality was God-knows-how-long for Buffy. If there was any chance at getting her back, it became more and more dismal by the second. "Brilliant," he said shortly. "So let's get rollin'."

"It won't be easy," the watcher warned.

"To infiltrate Hell? You don't bloody say."

A long sigh rolled off Giles's shoulders. "There will be trials," he continued. "You could die trying to get there…and even after you reach her, there's no telling if she'll be…Buffy."

"Or if you'll be able to get back out," Willow added unhelpfully.

Spike shrugged again, undeterred. "Well, we won' know a sodding thing if we jus' stand around an' chat about it all day, now will we? You say you know how we're gonna get in, so let's stop blabbering an' get to the getting. Buffy can't afford to wait."

"She also can't afford to have us make rash decisions," Giles replied firmly. "We need to learn exactly what entering Hell entails. What to expect once you are out of reach. Decisions made on a whim can cost us what little hope we have. There is no way, of course, to know exactly what you will face, but learning as much as possible will weigh the scales in our favor." _Or so we hope._ The words didn't need to spoken to have their punch. One look at the watcher's face spoke volumes. After a dramatic pause, Giles continued, "I know you want to get to her now. We all do. But we want to make sure we don't make any mistakes…this is a different world, Spike. The slightest move, the smallest slip of judgment can have ramifications the likes of which we have never considered. We love Buffy." A pregnant pause. The watcher swallowed hard, his eyes heavy. _"You_ love Buffy. With as much as we want her back, we need to make sure our fervor doesn't cost her an eternity."

If there was anything that could be said to slow the fire in Spike's heart, this was it. No matter if he knew Giles didn't believe it—and he didn't. While the vampire might have earned the man's respect, the road to acceptance was a long one, and it took more than a day to move a mountain. It was in the watcher's eyes; the firm belief in a demon's inability to love, in Spike's inability to feel anything but infatuation. However, an allowance—even a small one—was worth so much more than its weight in gold. Giles might not believe Spike truly loved the Slayer, but he knew Spike believed it. He knew what was at stake.

Giles didn't want to lose his daughter. The Scoobies didn't want to lose their friend. Spike didn't want to lose the woman he loved.

The woman he was _made_ to love.

And while Buffy's chums might not like him, they knew their cause was his. They knew.

"All right." Spike sighed heavily. "We wait." He hated the idea, but the wisdom behind it could not be denied. They needed time—they needed to learn as much as they could. It made him feel idle and useless, but it needed to be done. He needed to wait.

He needed to know what he was up against. He needed to know how to get to her without losing her first.

Even as seconds ticked by in Hell.

Seconds that could be days for her. Seconds that could cost them everything.

It was too important. This was too important. If Spike's impatience cost him Buffy, he would never forgive himself.

So he would wait.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Again I must thank all my lovely readers for their wonderful support. I'd forgotten what it was like to have a happy muse…the past few months have been a little off-setting for my typical writing, and this has really helped me find my grove again. Thank you all for your comments, reviews, emails, etc. I can't thank you enough.

Likewise, my betas—**justsue**, **meganpeta**, **elizabuffy**, **dusty273**, **spikeslovebite** and **therealmccoy1**—can't get enough praise. They're wonderfully patient in their waiting and giving in both their compliments and criticism. I find their suggestions invaluable, and all writers should be so lucky to have such a wonderful, dedicated group of ladies poring over my work.

A brief editorial note: _The Tale of Brychantus and the Demon King_ as well as all other mythology presented in this story is entirely my own.

**Chapter Three**

They didn't know what to tell Dawn.

It was Buffy's fault in a way, though Spike would kill anyone who suggested it. The Scoobies were accustomed to coddling the girl. Pretending she was five rather than fifteen. Pretending her fragile mind couldn't comprehend the horrors she'd been built to remember. Her memories might be fabricated, but that didn't make them false. She remembered discovering her sister was the Slayer. She remembered Buffy's three-month hiatus following Angel's death. She remembered the way the sky turned black with ash after Sunnydale High was blown to the moon. She remembered the monstrosity of Adam's demented creations. And she remembered every night she'd stumbled upon Buffy scrubbing blood and demon entrails out of her clothing. She knew the world in which she lived was a hybrid of the one she saw on television.

And she knew Buffy had dived into a thousand hells in order to save it.

But Dawn couldn't know _where_ Buffy was or what she was facing.

Spike didn't agree with keeping mum, but he knew it was what Buffy would want. Buffy would hate it if Dawn knew she was suffering because of her sacrifice. If Dawn knew she was suffering at all.

Therefore, when the girl asked him why he was the only one who could go after Buffy, he didn't know what to say.

"I mean," Dawn continued, "I know why you're going. You're…you're way strong and stuff. And you love her."

Spike nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on a spot on the kitchen counter. He'd come in here to make himself a nice, warm glass of blood and had instead found himself cornered by the love of his life's kid sis. Couldn't ignore her. Couldn't wish her away. Couldn't tell her the truth. Could do nothing but listen and wait for the microwave to beep.

"I love her," he said softly. There was nothing else to say.

"But Willow…she's all mega-witchy. Wouldn't…wouldn't it be good to have that kind of power if Buffy's in a dimension like…like the one we think she's in?"

There was a pause as his mind raced, and given how little time he had to come up with an answer, Spike thought his explanation an especially good one. "Guess it figures to keep her here in case some other Big Bad decides to throw in while things are all calm-like."

A thoughtful frown depressed her lips. "But this is Buffy we're talking about. Isn't getting her back the most important thing?" Dawn's eyes shone with tears, and that, more than anything, made the vampire's heart twist. He could stomach the Scoobies' pain, even if it only served to remind him of the darkness surrounding him, but the girl had lost so much. The girl was the only tangible piece of Buffy he had left. And when she wept, he fell apart. More so when he couldn't give her the answers she deserved.

"Isn't it?" she demanded again.

Couldn't speak the truth. Couldn't tell a lie. There were no happy mediums for vampires possessing a conscience.

"I'll get her back, Bit," Spike offered weakly. It was all he could give. "I bloody well swear it."

"But Willow—"

"Is needed here."

"She's needed wherever she can help Buffy," Dawn countered. "She can't help Buffy here."

The vampire smiled without feeling. "Sure she can," he replied. "Figure big sis wants another apocalypse to stop? We wanna make things easy for her when she gets back. Jus' long enough to…we don't know where she is." That wasn't entirely false, but false enough to make him hate himself for lying. God, things used to be so bloody simple. "It's better this way, pidge. Believe me. No one wants Buffy back more than yours truly, present company excluded. This is the way to go."

Dawn's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "There's something you're not telling me."

A sigh. He moved to the microwave and removed the now-steaming glass of blood, his stomach gurgling and his fangs twitching. Since hunger was a tangible pain again, he'd been hell-bent on consuming as much blood as possible. "Many somethings."

"Where is she, Spike?"

The question made his insides tremble. "Not here," he replied. "An' we're gonna fix that."

He had agreed to wait. It wasn't what he wanted, but he understood the wisdom behind caution. The _last_ thing he wanted was to jeopardize their chances of recovering her because of his impatience. So the Scoobies hunted and researched and came to conclusions, tossed their findings out the window, and started over. And he agreed to wait because it made everyone breathe easier to think he wouldn't fly off the handle.

He'd agreed because it was the smart thing to do, even if his heart didn't agree.

The demon on his shoulder whispered nasty temptations he'd grown rather apt at ignoring. He knew where the entrance was and how to get where he needed to go. The Hellmouth. He could go right now and no one would be any the wiser. It was what Giles had concluded…the Hellmouth. It was the way to gain access, and though simplistic, it made sense. After all, how better to get into Hell than walk in through the bloody front door?

"You actually eat today?" Spike asked, raising the glass of blood to his lips.

"Yes."

His eyes narrowed. "Dawn…"

"I ate! Believe me, after the Night o' Lectures, I ate." She crossed her arms and looked away, her nose wrinkling when he slurped his blood hungrily. "I didn't eat _much,_ but I didn't barf it up, either, so everyone should be happy."

"Won' let you starve yourself, Bit."

"I'm not starving myself!"

"Not after what she did. What she sacrificed."

"She shouldn't have—"

His nostrils flared. "Bloody right, she shouldn't have," he snarled. "But she did. She jumped, an' there's nothing we can do but get her back. But fuck if I'm gonna let her come back to a kid sis who doesn' care enough to keep living after she sacrificed her life so _you,_ Nibblet, could keep breathing."

Dawn balked as though smacked. "She didn't do it just for me—"

"You're a dolt if you think that."

"Spike—"

"She was gonna let the world burn for you. She was gonna let everythin' go to make sure no one touched a hair on your precious head." Spike broke off with a laugh, shaking his head hard. "You better pop off to bed."

A still beat at that. The girl crossed her arms and arched a brow. "Since when did you become the boss of me?"

"Since now."

"Hey—"

"I got about a hundred an' thirty years on you, munchkin. Don' make me prove it." He gulped down the rest of his blood, set the glass in the sink, and turned around with an air of authority one couldn't merely learn. "We got some rot to go over, an' the like. An' I'm not gonna let you squelch on your studies an' give Buffy another thing to worry about when she gets back."

It was easier to speak in absolutes. Easier to ignore the aching hole in his heart—the very real fear that he was playing to desire rather than certainty. He had to make it concrete in his head and heart before he proceeded; he couldn't enter Hell thinking he might fail. If he did, Buffy would be lost forever.

And he wouldn't allow that. Buffy _wouldn't_ be lost. Whatever happened to him didn't matter, so long as she breathed Sunnyhell air once more.

Dawn sighed again; a dramatic sigh only performable by teenage girls. "Summer school should be illegal."

Spike shrugged. "Preachin' to the choir."

"I was being hunted by a hellgod!"

"An' now you're not."

The look on the girl's face was so painfully _Buffy,_ he had to look away. She was so much like her sister—the monks had made her _so much_ like her sister. The way her eyes flashed, the way her mouth twitched, the way her shoulders wound tight when she was irritated or when she was about to employ the famous Summers' pout. At times it made it difficult to remember he didn't breathe. "Still," she argued, gesturing emphatically, "allowances!"

His eyes remained steadfast on the ground. "It's important to them, though, innit?"

"And to Buffy."

A beat. He nodded. "An' Buffy."

Another sigh. Dawn shrugged and pushed herself away from the counter. "All right. To bed with me. Just…" She broke off, gaze fastened on the wall separating the kitchen from the living room. It was where the others had undoubtedly congregated. Where they were going over plans they would inevitably toss out in favor of something else. "Just," the girl continued, "when they stop…let me know where you're going."

"Huss'at?"

"Let me know where you're going."

Spike shifted uneasily. "Not goin' anywhere, pidge."

"But when you get Buffy—"

"Not my call."

Dawn's eyes hardened into a glare. "Okay, what gives? You're not supposed to be so responsible. It's wigging me out."

A soft, sad smile twitched his lips. "Things change."

Things change. God, if that hadn't been the motto of the past year.

Everything changed. Hating Buffy. Loving Buffy. Fighting Buffy. Fighting _for_ Buffy. Finding Buffy. Losing Buffy. Watching Buffy jump.

Watching his world collapse as she tumbled to the ground.

Only she hadn't died—she lived. And she was living in a world of her own nightmares.

Things change.

And he would sacrifice everything to change them back.

* * *

He'd stood under that window too many nights to count. Right under it, in the company of the tree Buffy had used so often as a teenager. He'd dreamt of being where he stood now with longing that made his heart sore. Save for the wrinkles on the bed where he'd passed out the night before, the room looked untouched from when Buffy lived there. A heap of dirty laundry piled on the floor. The closet door hung slightly ajar, her purse hanging loosely around the doorknob. She'd kicked off a pair of heels and left them resting beside the nightstand. Her beloved stuffed pig sat neglected atop her dresser. This room wasn't dead; its owner was just missing. Buffy was missing.

Buffy was far from here.

Familiar pinpricks stung his eyes. God, his skin was raw from crying. He hadn't thought he had any tears left to give. With a heavy sigh, he turned and forced his feet down the hallway. Dawn was asleep. The gentle cadence of her soft breaths reverberated through the walls with a peace he envied. The girl could find sleep when sleep abandoned him; even the few hours during which his body had known rest, his mind couldn't escape its torment. Buffy haunted him around every turn, her eyes large and imploring, her mouth twisted in agony. Begging, crying, pleading, and waiting for him to find her.

The floorboards creaked nosily under his heavy boots. He was so accustomed to creeping around the Summers' home. Hoping no one noticed him. Hoping Buffy didn't realize he had a collection of photos and old, forgotten clothes stuffed in his duster. Every corner he turned came with the flicker of longing to run into her unimpressed face, complete with crossed arms and suspicious eyes. Her cute 'don't-fuck-with-me' attitude that did little more than turn him on.

It was no use. She wasn't here.

She was out of reach until the Scoobies got off their asses.

Spike turned toward the family room, reaching into his coat pocket. "What'd I miss?" he asked, sliding a cigarette between his lips.

Willow and Tara looked up at the sound of his voice, and judging by their mutual expressions, neither of them was very happy. Xander and Anya had pulled in chairs from the dining room and didn't look much better off. No surprises there. Another illuminating discussion which would ultimately get them nowhere.

"Willow wants to do something dumb," Xander announced.

"Something she's not going to do," Tara agreed.

Anya rolled her eyes. "They're exaggerating."

"Imagine that," the vampire drawled, lighting up. "What's this barmy plan?"

Willow sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Well," she said, reaching for a small, aged book on the coffee table. "I found this in Giles's library. It sounded familiar so I grabbed it."

Spike's brows perked. "Knicking things from the watcher? Bravo, Red."

The witch wiggled a bit at that, her cheeks flushing. "I didn't steal it so much as I…took it without letting him know. He was on the phone with other Gileses and by the time I remembered I had it, I was here and he was sleeping so…I'll let him know tomorrow?"

"You shouldn't be smoking in here," Xander said suddenly, waving at the cigarette.

"Shouldn't be here at all," the vampire retorted. "I oughta be halfway to the underworld by now, if you lot would stop talking an' get to doing."

"Doesn't change the fact Buffy wouldn't want you smoking in her house."

Spike's eyes darkened. "Dirty pool," he replied, pinching the end of his fag. "I figure this book means somethin', else you all wouldn't look so bloody serious?"

"I did some cross-referencing when I got back," Willow agreed, running her thumb along the cover. "It was familiar because six of the books on hell dimensions mention it specifically."

"What is it?"

_"The Tale of Brychantus and the Demon King." _Her nose wrinkled. "It's in Sumerian."

The vampire exhaled deeply. "Of course it is."

Willow shook her head. "Not really a problem. Tara knew a spell that would instantly translate texts based on a random sampling of the original language and a sampling of the target language. Fifteen minutes and presto manifesto."

"An' it's important?"

Anya huffed at that, crossing her arms. "You've never read _The Tale of Brychantus and the Demon King?_ Now I feel old."

Spike smirked in spite of himself. "Sorry, pet," he replied. "You got about a millennium on me."

"It was such a widely-read story back in the day," she mused with a dramatic sigh.

"What is it?"

"Best I can tell," Willow piped in, cracking the book open. "It's a folktale."

Xander blinked. "Demons have folktales?"

Anya met the vampire's eyes again and they shared a small, private grin. There were times Spike wondered if the boy had a mechanism in his incredibly small brain that switched off the capacity for rational thought. If it wasn't human, in his book, it had no artistry. No history. No traditions. No religion. If it wasn't human, it simply didn't function.

"All cultures have folktales, you pillock," Spike drawled. "Doesn' bloody matter how you grew up."

"Guess I never thought of demons as a culture."

"An' it shows."

Willow waved a hand. "Guys," she interjected sharply. "Point? This is important."

"No, it's not," Tara objected. "We don't even know if it's true."

"I think it's true," Anya added unhelpfully, her brow furrowed in thought. "I think I remember it being true. It's been eons since I even thought about _The Tale of Brychantus and the Demon King._ It fell to obscurity sometime after the Black Death."

Spike rolled his eyes. "This is fascinating, really. But will someone please tell me what the bugger the sodding thing is an' why the lot of you have your knickers in a twist?"

"It's a cautionary tale to those who enter hell dimensions," the redhead replied. "It's kind of…the tortoise and the hare. There was a quest, or a sort of…I don't know, Knights Templar for demonic relics sometime in 1200-800 BCE range. A bunch of artifacts were retrieved from a variety of dimensions, designed to make the world a demon playground once more…to overthrow the disease of humanity. Among these things, the most coveted was a…trinity of sorts. Fashioned in Hell and waiting for the strongest and cleverest to claim them."

Light flashed in Anya's eyes, her hand shooting up. "Oh!" she said eagerly. "I remember this! It was…a…a ring, a sword, and a crown."

Willow nodded. "That's right."

"Later texts speculate the ring became known as the Gem of Amara," Tara said softly, disapproval set staunchly in her eyes. "And the sword was eventually split in two. Modern scholars think it was what was used by the knight who originally stopped Acathla…and, Buffy…a few years ago."

Spike blew out a deep breath.

"A thing from Hell stopped an apocalyptic demon from sucking the world _into_ Hell." Xander blinked stupidly. "Talk about irony."

A long sigh rolled off the vampire's shoulders. "Don't you know anything?"

"It's not the sword that matters, but how you use it," Anya agreed.

Willow sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The point of the story is that no matter how evil the demon, you won't get anywhere in a hell dimension without something called the Rule of Three. The Demon King in the story was supposed to be…some mega apocalypse-happy demon, widely feared and regarded as the Napoleon of his time, only on a much larger scale. He entered Hell to grab the goods, intending to end the world, but he did it _without_ first seeking the Rule of Three."

Spike blinked. "Which is…?"

"We don't know," the redhead admitted. "I can't find it anywhere."

"And you won't," Anya predicted. "The Rule of Three, if memory serves, can't be written down in any dimension save one. If you try, the writing disappears…even if you try to get fancy with the wording. Hell isn't big on tourists who know how to dance around the booby-traps, ergo why it only exists in writing in one place."

Willow nodded. "The Inferias."

The former demon nodded. "That's right."

"And that's the point of the story," the redhead concluded. "The demon king didn't _bother_ to acquire the Rule of Three before he entered Hell, and even he, the baddest of the bad, was lost. He didn't think he needed it to survive—he thought his reputation spoke for itself. But this other demon… In some translations it's a vampire, in others it's a different half-breed…very low on the totem pole. All we know is it was a considerably weaker demon called Brychantus who learned the lesson the demon king did not. He went first to the Inferias to acquire the Rule of Three, which enabled him to enter Hell and emerge the victor. The Rule of Three is incredibly important."

"According to the folktale," Tara added quickly. "We don't know if it's real."

Anya rolled her eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you? It's real. It's not called the Inferias anymore, but the place is rather pleasant. D'Hoffryn let me set up a summer house there after I flayed a priest." Her smile turned wistful, completely oblivious to the looks she garnered. "Granted, I've only been once, as it's impossible to enter without any mystical powers and I only got a vacation every five hundred years, but I remember it with much fondness." She nodded. _"And_ I've been to the library where the Rule of Three is archived. I've seen it. Very pretty casing."

"And you don't remember it," Xander muttered.

"Well, it was in the year 1569. Would you remember something that happened to _you_ over four hundred years ago?"

Willow snickered loudly. _"Please. _I spent the weeks leading up to graduation re-teaching him everything he'd learned so he could pass finals." A pause. "Well, that and assembling an army to take out the mayor."

The boy sighed. "Thanks a lot for that, Will."

"I'm here to help," she agreed with a nod. She turned back to Spike with a shrug. "The entrance rite into the Inferias is rather simple. I'd be back in a jiffy."

It wasn't often that Tara raised her voice, but he'd seen it happen before. More over the last few days—more since Buffy jumped. The blonde witch wasn't one for exuding negative energy but, especially in the aftermath of losing her mind only to have it popped right back, she'd been especially protective of her lover. "I don't want you going," she said firmly. "We don't know anything about this dimension—"

"I just told you, it's fine," Anya interjected tersely. "It's pretty much identical to this one."

"Then why is it the rules for navigating _Hell_ can only survive in this _one_ dimension?"

The former demon shrugged. "I don't know. And truthfully, it hasn't been proven the Inferias is the only dimension…one of the ones discovered over the past few centuries might be able to house them." She turned to Willow. "I don't think they would have moved the tablet on which the rules were written. It should be in Thestle, which is the capital city, and likewise the only gateway in or out of the Inferias. The public library is on the west side of town, and you should prepare to wait for a few hours. Unless tourism has subsided in the last five hundred years, the line to see the Rule of Three typically stretches to the city limits."

"I'll go," Spike volunteered. He kept his voice tempered, but the prospect of actually getting out and moving—accomplishing a stepping stone to getting to Buffy—was too tempting for words. Every cell in his body itched to move, itched to do _something_ that would make him feel like they were actually moving toward recovering the Slayer from her self-made Hell. He appreciated everything the Scoobies had done as well as their caution, even if the impatient man inside couldn't abide it. He needed to be moving in order to feel useful, and if acquiring this Rule of Three was all that stood between him and entering the Inferno, so be it. "If it'll keep everyone here happy—"

"No," Anya said firmly, rolling her eyes again. "Weren't you listening? In order to access the Inferias, you have to possess mystical powers. The guardian of the dimension made the stipulation after Brychantus's tale became wide-spread. It was pretty much the only thing one _could_ do to monitor the traffic."

"'m a vampire."

"That's a state of being, not a power." She waved to herself. "I was a demon _and_ possessed powers along with that, which is what allowed me to gain entrance. Being a mystical _creature_ is not good enough, especially when your kind is older than humankind. It has to be Willow." She paused as though only then remembering there were two witches in the room. "Or Tara."

"And I say me," Willow insisted. "Buffy said it herself: I was the only one who could hurt Glory. If there is danger on the other side—"

"And there's not," Anya muttered.

"—I can handle it." She turned to her girlfriend before the blonde could issue another objection. "I'll be fine. I promise you."

Tara glanced down, her eyes heavy with trepidation. "How do we know the folktale is true?" she asked softly. "Aside from Anya's memory…which doesn't help us, being that it took place before she was made a demon. It's not catalogued as _history,_ Willow. It's a story. And you know as well as I that a lot of pieces of history come tagged with stories about how or why they're important. How do we know—really know—this isn't George Washington's cherry tree?"

"We don't," Willow replied simply. "But there's no harm in knowing the Rule of Three. And the text says so." She glanced down and hastily thumbed through the worn pages. "'The rules may be simple, but you'd be wise to listen/To not lose your way along the mission.'"

Xander frowned. "How'd it keep the rhyme with the translation?"

"Easy spell," Anya explained. "A lot of texts were bewitched to do things like that. It ensures the story doesn't lose its punch just because it's in a different language."

"There are oodles of those warnings," Willow continued, flipping forward a few pages. "'Be wary, traveler, or you will see/What happens when you ignore the Rule of Three.' I, for one, don't want to learn the hard way that this Rule of Three business is legitimate. Anya says getting in the Inferias is easy and it's safe as houses. This _can't_ hurt anything."

It took a few long seconds for the dissent in Tara's eyes to waver, and when it did, a pang of empathy harbored in Spike's chest twisted. The part of him that very much did not want to like anyone in this house aside from Buffy's kid sis. He liked the white witch, sure, but he sure as fuck didn't want to feel for her. Yet feel he did. Felt her hesitation and fear, felt her gut-consuming worry that she would lose Willow. Lose Willow as he had lost Buffy. Lose her light, as Spike had lost his.

But Tara was strong—much stronger than even her lover knew. Thus when she nodded, she did so with conviction. "Okay," she agreed softly. "You're right. It can't hurt anything."

Willow smiled and brushed a kiss across her girlfriend's cheek. "It can't."

Anya nodded at that. "Plus, time moves much differently in the Inferias. She could be gone all of fifteen minutes in this dimension. It was one of the reasons D'Hoffryn chose it for my vacation spot. I had weeks off, but was only _gone_ a day or two."

"Yet you were only allowed one vacation every five hundred years," Xander mused.

"I didn't say my vocation was without flaws."

"An' in the meantime?" Spike ventured. "We, what? Keep researchin'?"

Tara worried a lip between her teeth. "Discuss Buffy's fears," she said. "I-I don't know her as well as you guys, but…if you're going to be entering a world where her worst fears run free, I'd think you'd want a list of things to expect."

The thought made his insides chill. _Buffy's worst fears. _

The things he'd see once he reached her.

The things she had to face day after day.

The things from which he would rescue her.

He would get her out. Before her nightmares destroyed her, he would get her out. Spike would repay the mistakes he'd made. He would make right what should never have happened at the Tower.

He could have saved her from jumping if he'd been faster. More clever. He hadn't.

A trip through Hell was nothing in the face of the debt he owed. He would get her out.

He owed her the world, and he was going to give it to her.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The scents drifting through the house were heartbreaking in their normalcy. Lasagna, cheese bread, and chocolate chip cookies—home smells. Delicious smells. Spike hadn't eaten solids in days; he hadn't been certain he could until Tara plopped him down at the Summers's dining table and presented him with a plate full of pasta, complimented with blood she'd poured into a wine glass.

"Din't know you cooked, love," Spike murmured, seizing his fork.

"Yeah, Tara," Xander agreed as he took his seat across from the vampire. "This looks all kinds of scrumptious."

The blonde offered a shy smile, pink tinting her cheeks. "I just thought…none of us have been eating well and we deserved at least one good meal before…" Her eyes met Spike's briefly before darting away again. "Well, I don't get to play in the kitchen often so I thought I'd try."

"I made the cookies!" Anya announced loudly as she swung into the dining room, a large bowl of salad in tow.

Tara nodded. "Anya made the cookies."

Dawn favored the former demon with an encouraging smile. "They smell delicious."

Thankfully, Spike wasn't one to give a fuck about good manners, thus he had no qualms about digging in. He was too starved and the food smelled too good to wait until everyone had a serving in front of them. "Where's the watcher?" he asked, shoveling a forkful of cheese-drenched noodles into his mouth.

"I think he passed out on a pile of books," Xander replied.

"He's waiting for Willow," Tara corrected him. She glanced down once more, as though afraid her concern for her lover would lead to true tragedy. While she had stopped campaigning against Willow's traveling into the Inferias, she had almost reverted to the Tara of the old days. She would never be a great orator, but the last year had seen leaps and bounds in her confidence and openness. Leaps and bounds which had receded since Glory's mind-rape, and even more so with Willow's voyage into the unknown. It didn't dominate her disposition but was notable; every mention of the absent redhead had Tara's rapt attention.

"So," Dawn said, picking at a slice of cheese bread. "You guys are putting together a list of Buffy's worst fears."

How quickly _relatively quiet_ turned to stark silence. Xander froze in mid-chew. Tara's eyes went wide and her skin paled. Anya looked up, expression awkward; a sort of bewilderment she often adapted when confronted with a situation her demon-to-human sensibilities didn't know how to translate. There wasn't much _to_ translate beyond what was understood. Dawn wasn't _supposed_ to know anything. Not a blessed thing. Buffy's whereabouts, the recovery efforts, or anything involving their so-called adult meetings following her jump.

For her part, Dawn remained unflappable. "Vents," she confessed, shrugging. "If you guys wanted to hold a secret meeting, you shouldn't have done it in a place where I learned how to eavesdrop when I was five."

A storm cloud rose from the table, thick and pregnant and ready to spit shards of lightning at a whim. Spike sighed, a long, tired sigh that started with his shoulders and rolled to his toes. Dawn knew. Dawn knew where Buffy was. She had the right to know.

It wasn't the way Buffy would want it. Of course it wasn't. But the Bit had learned a thing or two from watching big sis, including a fine knowledge of how to dance around the rules to get what she wanted. What Dawn wanted, in this case, was answers.

Answers she deserved.

"Dawnie," Tara began softly, as though raising her voice above a whisper would cause the girl to break into hysterics. It was a maternal instinct, no doubt, but Spike found it amusing nonetheless. "Are you okay?"

Dawn pursed her lips and nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah."

"You heard what we were saying last night," Xander prodded.

"About Buffy. In Hell." She turned her eyes to the lasagna and nodded again, twirling her fork in a mix of cheese and sauce. "Yeah. I heard. And I get it…why you guys didn't want to tell me. But…well, I kinda had it figured."

"What?" Harris and Tara echoed in shock.

Anya shrugged. "It wasn't too terribly difficult to piece together."

Spike's eyes just slanted, his head tilting. "You figured Buffy to be in Hell?" he said gently, trying to keep accusation from his tone and failing miserably from the look the Bit gave him in turn. "Why would you ever think that?"

Dawn swallowed hard. "Because…she jumped into…a bunch of dimensions. And disappeared. And Glory was a hellgod, so it seemed…hellgod, hell dimensions. Or am I over simplifying it?"

"Nope," Xander said dryly, turning over a layer of noodles. "Just simplifying it enough."

"I always thought she was a very clever child," Anya added.

"Thanks," Dawn replied, smiling awkwardly. She glanced down once more, and everyone followed her example. It was a strained, awkward silence. The sort that ought to be broken immediately, even if one has no idea how to proceed. And yet, Spike wasn't certain whether the pressure in his chest was thick with relief or anxiety when the girl cleared her throat to speak again. Talk did little more than make him eager for action, even if some things needed to be said.

"So," the girl continued, "you need to know Buffy's worst fears."

Another long silence. Ultimately, Xander cleared his throat and nodded. "We think the dimension she's in is one she made, so yeah. What would be Hell…for Buffy? Her worst fears."

"Buffy made a hell dimension?"

"Not on purpose," Tara leapt in, her voice strained. "Willow…the theory we have is when she jumped, her mind concocted images of what Hell would be like, and that was the foundation for the dimension she fell into. Willow thinks it might be a part of Hell reserved for people who don't die, since that doesn't happen except for when people willingly enter a dimension like that and get lost. She thinks people who lose their way while navigating hell dimensions get trapped in a world where their worst fears ensnare them to the point where they can't escape. But we're getting her back, Dawnie. I promise."

Spike said nothing—just stared at his plate. Suddenly he'd lost his appetite.

"We think our list is good," Xander said. "We know she was afraid of becoming a vampire…at least she was four years ago."

Tara licked her lips. "Willow told me Buffy was…after she went into her mind, there toward the end…" Her eyes settled on the girl again. "After Glory took you, Buffy kinda…blinked out."

"Yeah," Dawn said softly. "She told me."

"She was trapped in a place where she kept killing you, because she thought it was her fault." The blonde glanced down self-consciously. "I…I'd put that on a thing to expect. It nearly killed her when she…was here."

A long sigh rolled off Spike's lips, his heart heavy. He no longer had a quiet. Whenever silence settled in, his mind took him to a place where Buffy couldn't escape her fate. Jump or sacrifice her sister. Jump or lose the world. Jump or become the thing she hated the most. A coward. A killer. A betrayer. Her sister's Judas. She'd jumped to keep Dawn alive, thinking all along that a fraction of a second had been at the cost of the Nibblet's life.

Buffy trapped in a hell where she had to jump over and over again.

_God._

"She told me once she didn't like roly polies," Anya suggested, breaking the silence with a statement so ridiculous, Spike had to replay it several times to verify it was in English. The former demon merely furrowed her brow in thought before continuing, "Or green beans."

The air fell silent with a series of exchanged glances.

"What?" she demanded, blinking.

Xander pursed his lips and reached across the table, covering her hand with his. "Thanks, Ahn."

"That's very helpful," Tara agreed with a forced smile.

Dawn, for her part, seemed torn between laughter and tears. Her eyes were laden with emotion, the sort only true loss could induce. Her mouth tried to twist into a grin but gravity pulled it down again. The grief she exuded served as a black hole, dragging the table into a place where her pain belonged to everyone. Where everyone knew exactly how she suffered.

Spike knew, for he carried Dawn's pain alongside his, and the burden was crushing.

"Yes," the girl said, nodding. "Thank you, Anya." She met Tara's eyes and forced a grin. "I guess this would be the place to say Buffy was afraid of squirrels when she was little."

A snicker bubbled off the vampire's lips before he could help himself, his body lurching forward and his face falling into his waiting hands. And once he started he couldn't stop. Something triggered. Something hard and primal. The image of Buffy, lost in a sea of nightmares. The thought of an adolescent Buffy scurrying away from neighborhood critters. The woman he knew versus the girl she'd once been. The girl who was now lost. Hard, body-consuming laughter rippled through his shoulders, pressing upon his chest and contorting until they emerged as harsh, raucous sobs. He didn't know whether he was happy or sad, and for the minute, it didn't matter.

It was only when he managed to wrangle in his emotions that he noticed the others had suffered the same reaction. Xander's face was red with a mixture of laughter and tears. Tara was either crying or giggling into a napkin, leaving Dawn looking immensely pleased with herself.

"Thank God we were never attacked by mutant squirrels from outer space," Xander mused, sniffing hard and wiping his eyes.

"Or the Jolly Green Giant," Tara added with a grin.

"Fine," Anya retorted, throwing up a hand. "Mock the retired demon."

"We weren't mocking you," the blonde amended quickly. "Anya, it was just…it was funny. And we needed to laugh."

Dawn nodded in earnest. "Thank you, Anya."

There was an uncertain pause during which the former demon's reaction teetered; ultimately, she seemed to decide it was easier being humble than indignant. Therefore, with a prompt nod and an ear-to-ear grin, she asserted, "Glad to help," before taking a bite of pasta.

It took a few seconds for tempers to calm again to the more-familiar stillness, though when the residual chuckles died into awkward silence, the air grew thicker than before. Forks scratched along plates. Chairs squeaked and people shuffled. They were trapped in an uncomfortable place between formality and casualness, sobriety and levity, tears and laughter. Laughter was good—Spike wanted them to laugh. He did.

Especially when all he could do was replay the visions plaguing his already-tortured mind.

He wondered should he be condemned to a self-made hell—if his would resemble Buffy's at all, for all his worst fears had transformed into _her_ worst fears coming to life. Tormenting her. Pulling at her. Consuming her.

And he was sitting at her kitchen table. Eating pasta. Surrounded by her friends. Waiting for Willow. Waiting for the Rule of Three. Waiting for Buffy's watcher's permission before he entered Buffy's Hell to make good on his promise.

His promise to Buffy. His promise to himself.

His promise to get her out.

And before he could help himself, before he even knew what he meant, the word, "Normal," slipped off his lips.

Quiet settled again. He sat staring at his cooling lasagna, aware of the eyes which had again landed on him, but too far submerged in memories to care. How often had he picked away at Buffy's defenses by remarking on her inability to be the thing she craved the most? A year and a half ago he'd attacked her in the sunlight after her first disastrous attempt at normality. That battle, like all in which they'd engaged, had been hers to win, but his triumph at spearing her insecurities had been a matter of immense pride. She wanted normal so badly. So bloody badly. She'd hunted for it in Parker's dorm room, in Riley's bed, in Ben's baby blue eyes—Christ, she'd peeked around every corner she could to find something normal. A nice normal boy for a nice supernatural girl.

Because of Angel. Because Angel had told her what she should seek. What she should be.

How best to honor his blessed memory.

Spike's jaw tightened and his eyes fell to his lap. Now was not the time for jealousy to stab his heart, but stab it did. All those blokes—all of them—got a piece of Buffy he'd never touched.

All of them had seen her smile.

"What was that?" Xander asked, leaning forward. "Spike?"

He didn't answer right away. He didn't want to voice his thoughts. It wasn't until a warm hand covered his arm that he jolted back to himself.

Tara smiled, favoring him with an encouraging squeeze. "Did you think of something?"

It took another second for his mind to stop spinning. "Urr, right," he said, clearing his throat. "Jus'…Buffy had a thing about normal."

Xander's brows perked. "A thing?"

"She wanted to be normal," Spike retorted. "But she couldn't, see. It's why she jumped college boy's bones after two bloody seconds."

"Hey—"

Tara's eyes went wide and she motioned to Dawn, who sighed heavily but covered her ears without complaint.

"An' this entire last year with the soldier—"

"Don't start in on Riley," Xander contested hotly. "Just because you wanted to get into her pants—"

Spike's eyes flashed. "Doesn' sodding matter what _I_ wanted, mate," he snarled. "Buffy was built for more than normal. She's the _Slayer,_ for fuck's sake. You think the girls before her got to settle down with a nice _normal_ bloke, have the two-point-five kiddies with a picket fence an' Sunday lunch with the family? Buffy wasn't made for it. It's why she went for Angel. For _Dracula,_ for Chrissake. Why it failed so brilliantly with anyone else she tried to touch. An' that sodding terrified her. She couldn't have normal no matter what she tried because it was everythin' she wasn't. Believe me, I know."

Xander nodded harshly, his gaze black with that old familiar hatred. It was almost welcome—a refreshing breath of normality in their suddenly upside-down world. There was no love lost between them, and once Buffy was recovered, their relationship would return to the comfortable, mutual loathing with which they were most accustomed. It was bracing in a way, knowing some things never changed. Some things remained reliable, and Xander's animosity was certainly one them. And as tiresome as that was, Spike much preferred a world where he knew who his enemies were. While he'd never lose sleep over Xander Harris, he likewise knew the boy wouldn't think twice about shoving a stake through his heart.

"And none of this has to do with the fact that you're obsessed with Buffy?" Harris demanded.

Spike snorted and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck off."

A small cry erupted from the head of the table, where Tara sat with wide eyes, shaking her head rapidly, silently begging him to end things before they grew out of hand. And for her, he might have—_would_ have—had Xander not opened his mouth again.

"No. And this is _exactly_ why I didn't want it to be you."

"You don' say?"

"You really think—"

Nerves ebbed, Spike slammed his fist against the table hard enough for the wood to splinter and crack beneath the cloth, his eyes burning yellow and gums tingling as his fangs threatened to burst into his mouth. "No," he snarled. "You selfish, ignorant git. There's _no one else,_ you hear? No one else who can even get to her…let alone get her back. You think I planned it this way? You think I _want_ her lost in a sea of her own nightmares so I can prove how bloody worthy I am of her? You think this is about anythin' other than getting her back? I'm doing this to repay my debt. Nothing else. I got her into this an' I'll sure as fuck get her out." He broke away with a harsh shake of his head. "It's my _obsession,_ see. The woman I love is in Hell an' I could've stopped it. You think that doesn' kill me? You think I don' replay that night over an' over? It's nearly driven me as loopy as Dru, seeing what I could've done. What I should've done. What I didn't do. I see it all the time—it won't bloody go away. If I'd only stopped Doc…" Spike's eyes fell shut, every inch of him drawn tight and trembling with the strain of keeping control. "I get Buffy out, an' that's it. She can go back to punching me in the face every time she sees me. I don't care. Fuck, I welcome it. At least she'll be _here._ She'll be where she belongs."

Silence settled again. The vampire sighed, took a hard swig of blood, and nodded at Tara. "Sorry to ruin your nice set-up, pet."

The witch smiled as best she could. "It's okay."

"You're not the one who ruined it," Anya muttered. When Xander looked at her askance, she heaved a deep breath and rolled her eyes. "Spike has done nothing but help since Buffy disappeared, and even when he's the only hope at getting her back, you have reservations. Why? Because he's a demon."

Harris didn't reply, just swallowed hard.

"He also happens to love her," she continued. "He allowed Glory to rip him apart, and even Buffy agreed he loved her enough to die if that was what was needed."

"He's a vampire—"

"And I'm a demon."

"Former," Xander insisted. "You're human now."

"Yes, but I'm still a demon here." She tapped her head. "I didn't magically get a soul when my powers were stripped. I don't regret what I did in the past. I did it because it was my job. It was who I was. Spike loves Buffy, just as surely as I love you, you penis. Furthermore, as he said, he's the only one who has a chance of even getting there, so you better stop hating him and start being grateful he's here at all, and that he _does_ love her. If he didn't, none of you would ever see her again. So back off and let the man eat."

White noise filled the air. Spike slouched back in his chair, too stunned to speak, much less move. It had happened recently with Buffy. It had leaked to Willow and Giles. It had touched Tara and remained shining with Dawn. Now Anya. They all accepted him as he was. To have it spoken by one of _them—_by someone who understood—had his mind spinning wildly out of control, had sounds drowning into long drones of incomprehensible nonsense.

He remembered Buffy snapping at her friends before they piled into the Winnebago. Remembered the look on her face when she entrusted Dawn to his care in the days following his rescue from Glory's penthouse. He remembered that, and though he'd known it as gratitude, he'd accepted it as something greater. He'd finally proven himself to her, and somehow, someway, she trusted him.

He'd changed without knowing it. The change in the beginning had been window-dressing. Something he called change to win over the Slayer's heart, though knowing at the core he was the same vamp he'd always been. When the true transformation had taken route and shaped him into something else, he didn't know. Obsession first, then love. He knew it was love that had reformed him. Changed him. He knew it. And at some point, the others had noticed. Her friends. The people he didn't want to like. The people he needed to get to her. They might not call it love—and hell, they might—but they knew what Buffy was to him. They knew he cared.

_They knew. _

"Spike?"

Spike blinked and glanced up. Tara was standing next to him, cordless phone in hand. He hadn't heard it ring.

"Willow?" he asked.

She nodded. "Back from the Inferias. She has the Rule of Three."

He was on his feet in an instant, tossing back the last of his blood. "An' Rupert?"

"You need to be at the Hellmouth in ten minutes." Tara shivered. "It's time."

* * *

The last time he'd ventured into the ruins of the school, he'd learned the chip in his head didn't prevent him from hurting demons. He'd tossed a bunch of ugly, smelly gits in the very hole into which he was about to crawl. He'd roared with triumph and exorcised weeks of repressed outrage, doing his best to ignore the googly eyes Buffy and Riley made at each other while secretly hoping she'd drop the wanker as they climbed toward freedom.

"The rules again," Willow urged, handing him a bag of blood. "Say them again."

"Don't accept what you're offered," Spike recited, tearing into the plastic without hesitation. His stomach was full but there was no guarantee of when he'd eat again, something he hadn't considered until Giles presented him with more bagged blood than he typically consumed in a week and told him to gorge. He needed his strength, and he needed it to last. "Don' make any promises. An' the great grand-daddy…"

"Don't forget your name," she said sternly.

"Don' forget your name." He tore into the bag again, not pulling away until it was empty. "Ninny lot of rules, those."

"They're important," Giles insisted. "The documents Willow found—"

Spike held up a hand. "I know."

"—and the extra reading she did while there—"

"I was makin' a joke to lighten the mood." He shrugged off his duster. "Guess it din't take."

The fire died from the watcher's eyes and was replaced with a worn smile. "Ah."

The vampire glanced down, fingers caressing the weathered leather of his prized coat. He'd had a mind to give it to Dawn to look after, but on Tara's insistence, the girl hadn't come to say her goodbyes. He'd made the journey to Sunnydale High on his own, walking through the town where the Slayer didn't live. Walking with the determination that when he saw the night sky again, it would be with Buffy at his side.

"Tell the Bit she can have this if I don' make it back," he said, thrusting the duster into Giles's arms.

A pause. The unspoken implication hung in the air but remained unspoken. Buffy _would_ be back, even if Spike was not. It was how they understood things. How they understood each other. All that mattered was getting her back.

If Hell demanded a replacement, it would have one.

"Thank you," Willow said, wiping at her eyes. "I can't…thank you."

Spike smiled softly. "You cryin', pidge?"

"No!" A few sniffles followed.

Giles stepped forward with a grim smile, patting the vampire awkwardly on the shoulder. "Thank you," he said earnestly. "I trust…this is…I…"

"Better to stop there before this gets weird." The vampire heaved a sigh, kneeled forward and snagged the rope they had prepared to lower him into the Hellmouth. It seemed such an elementary way of doing it, but he wouldn't complain. Let this one thing be simple. "All right, then. 'm off."

They looked at him expectantly, waiting for more. Waiting for something he couldn't give. Spike wasn't one for goodbyes. He turned, heaved a sigh, and began his descent.

And then the world disappeared.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** I'm completely overwhelmed! Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read and review. You guys do wonders for my muse.

I do need to write my Seasonal Spuffy fic, though it won't be long (a one-parter) and I have a few chapters of this on reserve in case I need to use them in the interim. My muse is a little cranky at being directed elsewhere, so I can't promise wonders with the Seasonal Spuffy story, though hopefully it will be the lighthearted piece of fluff needed as a break from this one.

Thanks as always to my wonderful betas.

Oh! **The Writing on the Wall, Southern Comfort**, and **Sang et Ivoire **have all been nominated at **The Spuffy Awards**! SQUEE! Thank you so much to whoever nominated me!!

Just a word: please refer to the warnings on this story for the next few chapters. They are not going to be pretty…but they are necessary for what happens next, so I really hope you bear with me.

**Chapter Five**

"Don't accept what you're offered," Spike recited through gritted teeth, doing his best to ignore the grind of rope against his burning palms. The coarse fibers dug deep into blood-soaked flesh, but options were limited and he'd rather climb slowly into the mouth of Hell than fall into a mindless abyss when he had no idea what awaited him. He couldn't see sod all at the moment; the glimmer of Willow's flashlight had faded more than a half hour ago. He breathed in dust and dirt, occasionally reaching out to study the rocky walls that encompassed him, but otherwise waited for the nothingness to take shape.

Waited for his feet to touch ground.

"Don't make any promises," he hissed, turning his eyes downward again. No light of any kind. Bit of bad news for Christians. The lake of fire apparently didn't exist.

Nope, there was nothing to Hell but musty air and cold, rocky cave walls. Bloody figured.

"Don't forget your name."

The most important rule. The one he was to remember beyond the others. _Don't forget your name._ While rules one and two had severe consequences—the sort that might rightly cost him his journey should they be broken—forgetting his name would render him, and Buffy with him, lost forever.

Willow hadn't understood the rules; she just accepted what she read, committed it to memory, and recited it over and over between Spike's arrival at the school and his departure into the Hellmouth. The words had been repeated until his head throbbed—until he debated shoving a gag down the witch's throat. But the rules were important and the vampire could certainly appreciate her concern.

Especially the third rule. The third rule was most important. The third rule which warned him against the impossible.

Forget his name and everything was lost.

It was so simple in its complexity. A lifetime or so had passed since he'd read up on the mythology behind titles—likely during one of Drusilla's more colorful spells. She would roll dice and spill prophecies, and he'd gobble them up like a good boy and do all the digging he could to find the answers to her contorted riddles. He remembered a bit from what he'd read. A bit but not much—just the basics.

Names held power. That much was common knowledge among seers and mystics and the like. Some believed names served as an imprint of identity, and to be stripped one of one's name was to be rendered a true blank slate. Of course, that didn't figure with amnesia and trauma victims who lost all sense of self but still functioned in everyday life, but the semantics were difficult to figure for the untutored. It made sense that a rule of Hell, if he was thinking properly, would be to remember one's name. If he lost his identity here he would never make it back. He wouldn't know how.

Thankfully, his name wasn't something Spike figured he'd lose any time soon. The other rules troubled him more. _Don't accept what you're offered. Don't make any promises. _

No promises. No accepting what he was offered.

To whom would he promise anything?

_Buffy._

Spike's jaw clenched, his arms aching and his stomach twisting. Still no ground in sight.

Still _nothing_ in sight.

A promise to Buffy. He'd already made thousands. He kept making them. It was his promise that brought him here. His promise drove him onward. He couldn't think beyond tomorrow if it didn't get him closer to Buffy.

"Don't take what you're offered," Spike ground out, wincing when his leg caught on a jagged edge. "Don't make any promises."

A gale of cool air billowed upward.

"Thank bloody God," he murmured, loosening his grip to slide further down the rope. Any more of the slow descent and his bloodied hands would wear themselves off. It wasn't until his boots collided with a slab of rock that he allowed himself to breathe. Hard, raucous breaths commanded by a body that had no need of them.

"Journey of a thousand miles begins with a first step," Spike recited with a tired sigh, wincing and kneeling forward, resting his raw, red palms against his knees. His chest heaved and his body ached, cool beads of perspiration dampening his forehead. He hadn't even realized he had the mechanics for sweat until that moment.

Learn something new every day.

"Well then." Spike shook his head, blinking hard and wiping particles of dust from his eyes. Then, inhaling deeply, he drew back, slid his hand into his pocket and withdrew his lighter. "Here goes sodding nothing."

It took a few seconds for his weary, tired eyes to adjust to the whisper of light emanating from his Zippo. A glance around confirmed what he already knew: he was surrounded by a dark, hollow nothingness. Shadows stretched from every corner, reaching from the bowels of stone-carved alcoves and twisting down any number of pathways. It was cold, empty, and barren. A sort of isolation one couldn't understand without experiencing it. He was far below the ground he knew—far below his world. Spike wasn't one for panic, but there was no denying the icy fingers of claustrophobia as they grasped his heart and gave it a harsh, callous twist. For the first time—the real first time—it occurred to him there was no going back.

He wasn't hot-poling; he was here to get Buffy. He was at the mouth of the place people spent lifetimes fearing, and arriving was only a sliver of what lay ahead.

The easiest part.

What waited for him when he saw her again was anyone's guess—if the light at the end of the tunnel would manifest into something tangible. If the hellish forms of her worst nightmares hadn't consumed her already.

If he wasn't already too late.

A long sigh heaved through his aching body just as his eyes settled on a large plank of wood hanging from the rock ceiling, words carved in childish penmanship. He froze and expelled a deep breath.

"Bloody hell."

_Abandon hope all ye who enter here. _

He blinked at it for a few seconds as though daring it to vanish. It didn't. There were just some things not expected to be seen on entering Hell. Fabled or not. "Well," he drawled at last, doing his best to ignore how his chest hurt when he spoke. "That's original."

A small, gurgling growl rumbled from behind. The vampire whirled around so quickly his light went out. He fumbled to strike it up again, and almost immediately wished he hadn't. Dust and grime trembled off the cavern walls with every step the beast took. It towered a good twelve feet, composed of shadows and small, wandering insects that disappeared and reappeared under flaps of what couldn't really be called skin. Long, coiled horns twisted from its scraggly, elongated skull, a yellowish puss oozing from the many pores on its mangled face. Its eyes were red and large, its mouth lined with three rows of razor-like teeth caked with a dark substance the vampire didn't care to investigate. Scales matted its body from head-to-hoof. Rancid breath puffed through its snout, and when it reached a claw for Spike, his primary reaction was to duck and put as much space between himself and the creature as possible.

The last thing he expected was for the beast to open its jaw and speak intelligibly.

"Yeah," it said in fluent English. "We had that put up right after _The Divine Comedy_ came out. The guys downstairs were a little peeved they hadn't thought of it first."

Spike blinked again.

"I mean, you get to Hell and you expect something, right?" the beast continued, waving an arm demonstrably. "We had a few contenders, but Dante's was definitely the winner. Plus, it has worldwide recognition. You knew what it was immediately, and you're not exactly one I'd expect to spend a lot of time reading." It chuckled and raised its claws. "Not that I'm judging."

The vampire's brow furrowed. His first instinct had faded the second the creature began speaking. Call him old fashioned, but if it was ugly's intention to put the fear of God in him, a casual tone and even more casual demeanor went a long way in downsizing its credibility. "Fascinating, really," he drawled. "An' you are?"

The demon bowed back apologetically. "Oh!" it cried. "I'm sorry. How rude of me." It extended a claw. "Name's Larry."

Spike's eyes narrowed. "Larry?"

A shrug. "Short for something else, but I figure this'll be easier to remember. And you're William the Bloody."

The name made him shudder. "I prefer Spike."

"Of course you do," Larry agreed with a steadfast nod, then laughed richly as though he'd said something highly entertaining. "Who wouldn't? I mean, William the Bloody does have a certain ring to it, but then you'd have to live with all those grisly memories. The baggage, man, the baggage! Who'd want that?" He shook his head hard. "Ah, well. Spike's rather catchy, isn't it?"

An exasperated sigh rushed through the vampire's body. "Do I look like I give a bloody fuck what you think? You're the bloke, right? The one Harris's bird told me about. You're here—"

"To guard the gates to the Slayer's Hell." Larry nodded and shrugged. "Yup. That's me. Your friendly neighborhood guardian. I actually got lifted from a job in filing to watch this gate. And seeing as it took me seventeen thousand years to move to upper management, I'm not too keen on what you're here to do."

"So you're gonna try an' stop me."

"Well, I'm not going to make things easy for you. What self-respecting guardian would? These circumstances only happen once every few millennia. I can't remember the last time we got a live one." Larry drifted off in thought before his fire eyes brightened. "Oh! Back in the eighth century, right. This couple decided to raise a demon by actually going into Hell to pick one out. Like we were a pound or something. Isn't that cute?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Spare me."

"Not in my nature." The demon heaved a deep breath. "I don't suppose there's any talking you out of this?"

"Not a bloody chance."

"Only one person has braved Hell and survived, and only because he was allowed leniency."

"This that Brychantus chap? The one from the witch's old wives' tale?"

Larry blinked in surprise. _"Brychantus and the Demon King_ is still in circulation?" He released a low whistle. "Wow. Did _not_ see that one coming. We don't get many champions who've actually done their homework."

The vampire shrugged. "Can't take the credit. Jus' do what I'm told. An' I'm no one's champion."

A pause. The demon's brows perked. "Ah. And here I thought the entire reason you were taking on this escapade was to become the Slayer's chosen warrior. You're here serving as _her_ champion, are you not? And please, don't let my tone fool you. I might be cavalier, but rest assured I find this utterly hilarious."

A shadow embraced Spike's insides, darkening his eyes and sending a cool shudder through his veins. "Sod off," he said softly.

"Well, it just doesn't happen every day. A vampire in love with the Slayer?"

"Happened once in recent memory."

Larry's eyes narrowed. "Oh, come on. _That_ doesn't count. Give Angel a soul and he's essentially a big brooding puppy who can't go out in daylight. He wasn't a vampire where it counted, now was he? But you. _You._ You have any idea how thick your file is?"

"I have a file?"

The demon went on as though Spike hadn't spoken. "Killer of two slayers. Not one, but a solid two. Not many vamps can say that. It's usually something much bigger…something much more impressive that does them in. You, my friend, killed two, and you enjoyed every ruby red minute." Larry shook his head again. "And yet, for this one girl, you're willing to throw away that glorious reputation. You sure she's worth it?"

Resolution hardened in his heart. "I know it," Spike replied stonily. "Let's get started."

"Whoa! Hold on, there."

"I don' have time to stand around an' chat."

Larry quirked his head. "Actually, you do. You have all the time in the world."

"She's waitin'—"

"And you still have to get there. So far you've earned nothing but the right to try the first trial."

Spike's eyes darkened and he sucked in his cheeks. "Right," he said slowly. "So you gonna feed me some drivel about how this is all for rot an' I'll never see the light of day again?"

"You and daylight don't mix very well, if memory serves." Larry shrugged. "Anyhoo, the sun's overrated. Look at me. Haven't been anywhere near it in nine millennia and I'm doing okay."

The vampire ran his eyes over the guardian's slime-coated scales and shuddered. "Yeah, well, if you ever do decide to take the tour, I got one word for you: Maybelline."

"You should take this seriously, though," Larry warned, and Spike couldn't help the ripple of frustration that tore through his body. The suggestion he could consider the journey through the underworld anything _but_ serious was an insult to everything the vampire had ever aspired to be. The notion—the thought that this somehow _wasn't_ deathly urgent for him—that he needed to be told yet _again_ what was at stake spat in the face of his love for Buffy, and he wouldn't take that from a demon. Her friends. Her watcher. Fine. Bloody fine. But not a demon. Not this creature built of puss and fecal matter. All Spike had to do was summon the image of Buffy's face and his every nerve tightened with desperation, and to whisper anything else was to wish the Slayer dead.

There was no greater sin.

"Don't reckon you've ever loved a girl before, mate," the vampire ground out, doing his damndest to keep his temper in check. "But getting Buffy back…there's nothing more important to me than that."

"And that's, well…honestly, that's really cute."

Spike snarled. "You're lookin' to brass me off, aren't you?"

"Not exactly difficult." Larry puffed out a deep breath. "There are complicated legalities to get through. For instance, you're only allowed this one chance. You get halfway through the first task and decide you need to go back into training before you take another crack at it? Sorry. No can do. This here's a special hell and we're not too big with the hand-outs. You have any idea how rare it is to capture a live one?"

Never mind the guardian himself had just said the same thing five minutes ago… Spike's jaw grew tighter. If Larry wasn't careful, he'd find himself with a fist punched through his crusty chest. "So I've been told," the vampire growled. "Doesn' bloody matter. I'm not leaving till I have Buffy. She goes or I don't."

"You say that now…"

"'m guessin' that file you gits have on me isn't all that comprehensive. If it were, you'd know how bloody serious I am."

Larry's hands came up. "Whoa, whoa. I didn't say you weren't serious. I mean, Jesus, look at you. You're wound up tighter than a drum and positively living on all that sickly rich love you have for your lost little slayer. I'm just saying, tunes start changing once the trials start. I might not have dealt with a vampire heartsick for a slayer before, but you do remember the story of Eurydice and Orpheus, right? And we all know how that one ended. The trials aren't pretty. And all poor Orpheus needed to do was walk _out_ of Hades' domain without looking backward." The demon tsked, shaking his head. "Poor, poor Eurydice. Her beloved teases her with freedom and life and betrayed her with a simple glance."

The irritation surging in the vampire's chest swelled further, seeping into his muscles and wringing him with the need to let loose. And Christ, the git was asking for it. Spike might not be a lot of things, but no one in any dimension could doubt his loyalty to the women he loved. For well over a century, he'd blindly followed Drusilla, lapping up whatever she deigned to give him while ignoring his own desire to touch something more, to reach for something greater than he was or ever could be. Something born of light. Something wholly unprecedented. And while he would have followed his black goddess to the end of the world, the path onto which she'd steered him had been his true redemption, rather than another in a long line of false faces. It was why he was here now. Why his chest ached with the absence of the one woman he'd truly loved—beyond infatuation or gratitude, beyond seeing her as an idol rather than as she was…for the first time in all his life, the wealth of what he felt was greater than language. Greater than song. Greater than his whole being. It wasn't blind love, as it had been in the past—as it had been with Dru and Cecily and the girls upon whom he'd been sweet in his childhood. Buffy wasn't faultless by any means. She was full of imperfection, and in his eyes, _that_ was what made her perfect.

He could see her flaws. He'd made a study of them when they were enemies, and now, in love with her as he was, he knew her limitations intimately. And he loved her for them. They made her real—made her human. The way she acted on emotion rather than thought. The way her nose scrunched up when she realized a mistake. The way her eyes rolled when she was at her highest peak on her throne. She was brilliant if not intelligent, witty if not clever, and so full of flaws that he could _see_ it made him realize why it had never truly been real before.

She wasn't an ideal. Perhaps she'd been once, but not anymore. Even in death, while her memory was sacred, he wouldn't flower it up. It wouldn't do her justice. She was perfect because she _wasn't,_ and the hole she'd left in his heart was too vast to forfeit the mission.

With everything he had, he loved her. And if the scaled-monkey standing before him thought talk of torture and trial would scare him off, then the gits down here truly didn't know who William the Bloody was.

Or what he was willing to endure.

What he was willing to sacrifice.

"Whatever you throw at me is sodding child's play to what you're doing to her," Spike said firmly, eyes burning. "'m not easily spooked."

Larry shrugged as though it made little difference to him. "I figured you'd say as much. Just remember, you're free to walk away whenever you like."

"Not without her."

"Some fortune's fool you are, eh?"

Spike said nothing. His nostrils flared and his gaze sparked yellow, but he didn't speak.

The guardian offered another shrug. "Well," he said, taking a step back. "Your call, hotshot. Just don't say I didn't warn you. First trial in an hour. Be prepared."

Hard to imagine a four-hundred pound demon disappearing into thin air, but disappear he did. Faded against the shadows, leaving Spike alone in the belly of Hell's outer circle.

The gateway that would lead him to her.

His eyes trailed down the darkened corridor. There was nothing. Nothing for miles, perhaps. He didn't even know if he was looking in the right direction—if there _was_ a direction in which to look. All he knew was one of these tunnels would get him to Buffy. One of these tunnels was the right path. The right way.

She was waiting for him, and all he had to do was pass a handful of tests before he saw her face again.

Spike licked his teeth and kicked at the dirt. _I'm coming, Buffy. _

It was a promise he couldn't voice, but felt all the same. And no one—Larry or whoever else decided to play—would pry it from his lips. It remained, though, buried deep within him. Something with which he wouldn't part.

He was so close even at this distance, and he could barely stand it.

_It's the fall that's gonna kill you. _

"Right," Spike muttered. "Let's get this party started."

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

It would be a night funeral. The others wouldn't like it—it would invite any manner of creatures and alert the demon underworld the truth of what had occurred. The truth her friends kept protected. Buffy was gone. She was gone, and the world couldn't know. The world couldn't know the Hellmouth was unprotected. The world couldn't know its champion was in the ground. Not with the other slayer serving twenty-five-to-life in a cell somewhere in Los Angeles county, and the Scoobies were clueless whether or not Buffy's death would trigger another girl's destiny. In the laws of the universe, she hadn't been the active Slayer when she jumped; her brief foray into death years ago had stripped her of the formal title. And yet, despite everything, hers was the name demons feared. No other slayer could wish to compare. She was a legend. Buffy was a legend, and the world couldn't know she was gone.

For that reason, a night funeral was dangerous. Night funerals attracted attention, and Buffy's friends were nearly as recognizable as the Slayer herself. If word got out that Buffy was gone, the Hellmouth would become a bona fide war zone, the likes of which the Scoobies couldn't picture in their worst nightmares.

It was dangerous but necessary. If Spike couldn't attend, there was no telling what he might do with himself. If he couldn't look at her one more time. If he couldn't say his goodbyes. His body was crippled with starvation, his eyes hollow from sobbing and his throat choked with the tears he couldn't cry. He'd cried himself dry. He _couldn't_ cry anymore.

Gone. Gone. She was _gone._

_No, no, no…_

_"Buffy wanted you to have this…"_

Spike didn't know to whom the voice belonged. He didn't even know where he was. The room was shapeless, the faces around him blurred and unfamiliar. Buffy wanted him to have something? It didn't seem right.

None of this seemed right.

"Who's there?" he asked. He barely recognized his own voice. "Willow?"

Something heavy sank into his hand. Something soft and wet. Something cold. A high shriek deafened his ears, every cell in his body freezing in horror. He couldn't see it. Couldn't smell it. Couldn't do anything but hold. However, blind as he was, there was no questioning the tender weight cradled in his palm. He knew exactly what it was. He'd held too many to mistake it for anything else.

_"You did your best," _the voice said. _"No one blames you." _

Panic speared his insides. No. _No._ None of this was right. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. This wasn't where he was supposed to be _at all._ This was a place of death and loss, where Buffy was being laid into the ground. But it wasn't right. There wasn't supposed to be a funeral. There _couldn't_ be a funeral. She wasn't dead. Her body was missing but she wasn't dead. And he wasn't near anything resembling normality.

Spike's fingers tightened around the Slayer's heart as his own shattered again. _No. _This wasn't how it happened.

He hadn't had the chance.

"'m not supposed to be here!" he screamed. "This isn't right! _This isn't fucking right! _I'm gettin' there. _She needs me!"_

_"You did your best," _the voice said again. _"All is well." _

"No, all is not sodding well," Spike snarled, throwing the heart to the ground and willing himself not to wince at the splattering echo. "That's not hers. You're not here. _I'm_ not here. She's—"

_"Gone." _

"Gone," he agreed harshly. "Not _dead._ I'm getting her back."

_"You tried." _

The voice faded, rolling into a faint, haunting melody which grew more and more distant with each syllable. It calmed to a hush before ultimately falling into a void he could not follow. The ground beneath his feet began to tremble, throwing him off balance as the disfigured world around him descended into a spiraling pool of darkness. It couldn't be real. It _couldn't. _He hadn't been given a chance. They hadn't let him try. _Try, try, try…_

It couldn't be real.

And it wasn't. Spike slowly became aware of several things. The cold, jagged stone against his back. The pounding throb hammering his head. Every stretch of his body was sore, tiny pinpricks stinging the heels of his palms where the rope had burned harsh lines into his skin.

Everything was fuzzy and distorted.

He had no idea what happened or how much time had passed. The last thing he remembered was nothing overly remarkable—nothing that would naturally lead to waking up on the cold cave floor with a bastard of a headache and a stomach twisted with knots, haunted by false memories and fears of things that would never come to pass.

There wouldn't be a burial. So long as Spike survived, there wouldn't be a burial. He'd fight to free her with his last drop of energy, with the last ounce of strength in his body. He didn't care what it cost. What he had to sacrifice was immaterial. All that mattered was Buffy.

"Bloody hell," he groaned, sitting up with a grimace.

"You're telling me."

Spike sighed, glancing over his shoulder. "Mind telling me what happened?"

Larry shrugged casually from where he stood cross-armed, leaning against a small alcove. "Not uncommon," he replied. "Everyone passes out after they get to Hell."

"'m not a person," the vampire retorted. "Is there a reason?"

"Well, it _is_ Hell. We do get some bad press."

"Not sure if you noticed, mate, but I'm not your typical tourist."

Larry blinked. At least it looked like a blink. Difficult to tell when the demon didn't possess conventional eyelids. "And I suppose that matters?" he drawled dryly. "Hell is Hell, no matter how you flip it."

"Hell looks a bloody lot like a bat cave."

"And I say again, it doesn't matter. The journey's greater than the destination. You got here and you knew what it was, even if the entry hall doesn't look how you pictured it. Cheer up, man. It happens to everyone." Larry offered another shrug. "Are you ready for the first trial?"

"Guess I better be, right?"

"You're always free to turn around and walk away. No one would blame you, certainly."

Spike's eyes darkened, his mind dragging him back to the world he'd seen in his dreams, the one where Buffy's home was in the ground. His heart twisted and filled with renewed determination. "Sorry to send you back to the filing room," he replied snidely. "But what's another few millennia when you're in Hell, right?"

Larry smirked unpleasantly. "You'd be surprised."

"Somethin' tells me I wouldn't." The vampire sighed and shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck to worry out the kinks. He wasn't a bloke of refined tastes, but there was a great difference between sleeping on a sarcophagus and sleeping on a stony floor. Didn't much help matters that he'd grown accustomed to a soft cushy mattress over the past few months. "Right then," he said with a nod. "Let's get going."

"There's no shame in quitting," Larry assured him. "Not many have gotten even this far. The thought of the unknown scares them away. You—"

"Don' scare."

"Don't scare, as I think we've established into overkill."

"An' you're looking more an' more like a git who's worried about keeping his job," Spike retorted. "Figure you finally looked me up in your books, is that it? Found out I'm also not the sort to leave the woman I love in her own sodding nightmares when I know I have the power to get her back."

Larry's huge, greasy shoulders heaved upward. "I'm not too concerned," he said. "Yeah, you're nuts about this girl, but the trials turn men into mice, and mice into cheese, if you get my drift. And they get harder the further you go."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Of course they do. Isn't leveling up the idea?"

"I just don't think you understand how difficult it will be."

The vampire's jaw tightened. "I think you better shut your gob before I rip out your tongue an' shove it down your throat."

"Someone's touchy."

"You're tellin' me I don't get how impossible it's gonna be to take _the Slayer_ out of Hell?" Spike took a step forward, eyes blaring dangerously. "The girl jumped off a tower to save the world an' fell into a world where her worst fears are her reality. An' yeah, she's the enemy. She has a stake up her arse the size of a giant sodding redwood. I don't care. I love her, an' I'm not going back unless she's with me."

A still beat settled between them. Larry favored him with a long, appraising look. "Good to get that off your chest, big guy?"

"Gotta get it through your thick skull somehow. You keep saying it won' happen."

"Well, give me some credit," the demon replied. "I _did_ tell you I wasn't going to make things easy for you. It's my job to make sure she doesn't budge. I gotta give you a fighting chance, sure, but I'm not going to be idle about it. And yeah, I get that you love her."

Spike's nostrils flared. "Don' say it like that. Like it's nothing."

"Never said it was nothing."

"You sodding—"

Larry held up a claw. "Gonna stop you there. First: I'm not easy to offend. I mean, look at me." He stretched his scaly, log-sized arms. "Do you imagine there's anything I _haven't_ heard? Secondly: I _know_ you're serious. Anyone stupid enough to climb into Hell has to be serious…or insane, but you were never the nutty vamp, so I'll take what's behind Door Number One. In the end, I guess I'm just jaded. I've seen too many people swear their undying love for their honeys. Give them ten minutes in a trial and they're swearing there's nothing they _wouldn't_ do to get back home, no matter the cost."

The explanation did little to smother Spike's outrage, yet there was little to be gained by screaming at the top of his nonbreathing lungs. If anything it would prove the git was worming his way into the vampire's subconscious, burying a seed of doubt where doubt should not exist. Larry's prophesies aside, Spike remained steadfast, though there was no denying the fear that he would fail. The fear that he would collapse and die along the way. That he wouldn't be strong enough to withstand whatever it was the guardian wanted to throw at him.

His own strength worried him. While he vowed to give every ounce he had to get to Buffy, he worried he wouldn't have enough.

That was where his fears ended. The other possibility failed to resonate. The one featuring him crying uncle and returning to the world without Buffy. Returning a failure. They could shove a stake through his chest and he wouldn't beg for mercy. They could toss him into the sun and he wouldn't cover his eyes. They could ask him to bathe in holy water and he wouldn't flinch. There was nothing he wouldn't endure.

There was no price too high.

But he couldn't allow himself to lose his temper again. He couldn't let Larry see his weakness, even if it was glaringly obvious. "You're not my favorite person right now," he ground out, hands curling into fists. A gross understatement of laughable proportions, but he had nothing else to offer.

He needed to maintain focus.

"I'll have to blog my despair," Larry retorted, rolling his crimson eyes. Sarcasm, however, seemed misplaced for the demon, whose otherwise cheery disposition couldn't manage an acidic tone. "All right then, Big Guy. If you'll follow me, we'll get you started with the first trial. And whoo boy, is it a doozy!"

Spike inhaled sharply and forced a nod. "Can't hardly wait."

* * *

At first glance, there was nothing to the trial. Nothing at all. No tangible objective and no way of _meeting_ the objective; nothing but a starting point and an imaginary finish line. After leading Spike through several narrow tunnels, Larry had stopped so abruptly the vampire nearly collided with his foul-smelling back. The arrival had been anticlimactic but the aftermath was just puzzling. What sat before him was not a trial at all. He didn't know what it was.

Well, not entirely. _What_ it was seemed rather self-explanatory. But he had no idea how to proceed.

No idea whatsoever.

The channel broke into a larger crevice, the stone floor stretching a good ten feet or so before falling into a pool of black water. The spread between the walls stood at approximately four meters, stretching just far enough to make the tunnel-inspired claustrophobia ease while still emphasizing the fact that Spike was far from home. At the end of the pool was a wall carved from cave rock. There was no opening. No ostensible goal. The pathway simply ended.

"Shouldn't have taken that right at Albuquerque," the vampire muttered, rubbing his jaw.

"I always preferred Daffy Duck to Bugs Bunny," Larry retorted. "I thought he got a bad rap."

"Fascinating," Spike noted dryly. "You should write a book."

"No need to get touchy, now."

Ignoring him, the vampire waved at the pool. "What the bloody hell is this?"

"It's a body of water."

"An' it's my trial?"

The demon nodded slowly. "Well…yes. I think it's rather self-explanatory."

"Self-explanatory. You want me to take a bath?"

Larry snorted and shook his huge head. "No. We're Hell. What do we care about cleanliness? No, your goal is rather simple. This is the path that takes you to Buffy. It's about a half-mile long, give or take a few feet. To get there, you just have to…well, get there. Starting here."

Spike's eyes were fastened on the wall. "An' getting across the pool is the firs' test."

"That's right."

"Gotta say, mate, after you talked it up so much I'm a li'l disappointed."

Larry favored him with a skeptical glance. "Do you _not_ see the huge slab of stone?"

"Doesn' worry me."

That wasn't entirely true, but there was definitely some level of relief. After everything the demon had said, a dead-end swimming hole seemed too good to be true. All he needed to do was get around the barrier—then he was on his way. On closer inspection, it might be even easier. Perhaps the wall wasn't a wall at all, rather a door. Perhaps there was a lever of some sort. The kind he saw in old noir films. The secret book the on-screen dame pulled in the old crone's library to get to the manor's hidden chambers. The trick-candle in a castle's dungeon that made walls spin around.

It didn't seem right, but he wasn't going to voice his misgivings.

"I did mention this is the _only_ path to your slayer, didn't I?" the demon guide said. "It's not like you can cut back and take a short-cut."

Spike shook his head, huffed out a deep breath, and took a step forward. "See you on the other side, Larry."

A closer inspection of the wall didn't yield new results. There weren't any telling creases to indicate it doubled as a door and he saw clearly that it stretched below the surface of the water. And while hopes of immediate success faded accordingly, he refused to be put off. He now had a rough idea of where he was. Of where Buffy was. Buffy was beyond the wall. Buffy was waiting for him. In just a few short hours he could be with her. He could see her face. Bask in her smile. Hold her if she let him. Christ, he could be getting pummeled into the ground by the woman he loved and he would revel in every second. He could be with her and there was no greater prize than that.

Spike stepped up to the edge, peering into the black pool. "Jus' water, then?"

"Your plain ole H2O," Larry agreed. "We don't get much light down here. Not that it would matter, right? As long as it gets you to Buffy."

He nodded. "As long as it gets me to Buffy."

"Okay, then. Feel free to proceed at any time. She ain't getting any less-tortured, you know."

A dark shudder commanded the vampire's body and before he could help himself, a growl had tumbled through his lips. It was an intentional ploy, but it worked nonetheless. Larry wanted him to rush. Wanted him to get sloppy. Wanted to instill an unneeded sense of urgency to trip him up and cost him the mission.

_Buffy._

Spike shifted his weight from one foot to the other before kneeling before the pool. He had to keep his thoughts with Buffy.

Buffy was the prize. She was the light.

And he would get to her.

Thus with a sigh, he dipped in a finger to test the water.

And immediately pulled back as his flesh started to sizzle.

"Bloody hell!" Spike barked, leaping to his feet and shaking off the pain. He whirled around to the demon with a fierce snarl. "You stupid git, might've bloody mentioned—"

Larry blinked innocently. "What?"

_"Plain ole water?" _

"Holy water is plain water. It just happens to be, y'know, _holy." _

"This is _Hell." _

"So you noticed."

"Holy water—"

"Is nothing but water consecrated by some earthbound dress-wearing putz," Larry acquiesced. "And yet, it makes your skin burn. I honestly thought you had this figured. What fun would it be if the water _wasn't_ blessed?"

Spike snarled and waved at the dead-end. "I'll bloody dissolve before I even touch the sodding wall."

"I'm here to help if you need anything."

With a disgusted grunt, the vampire turned back to the pool and clamped his jaw shut.

_Don't accept what you're offered. _

He was pretty certain advice fell under that guideline, which meant there was nothing he could do. Nothing but sit and hope an answer bled through the cracks of his broken psyche.

A sigh rattled his bones. Spike sank to the ground and settled on his knees.

Might as well get comfortable. He was going to be here for a while.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N**: All right, this is the last chapter I'm posting until I get a new one written (I want to remain at least 3-4 chapters ahead of my posting) … but seeing as I got my Seasonal Spuffy fic written and ½ of my homework assignments complete, I'm banking on getting Chapter 12 done over the weekend. Here's hoping.

Again, thanks so much to my wonderful readers. Your comments, reviews, emails, etc mean the world to me.

My betas rock the casbah. I love you all dearly.

I am going to take the time to remind you that this story has ratings and warnings for a reason. When reading this (and subsequent) chapters, please bear that in mind. So anyone who gets persnickety…well, I will mock you with my monkey pants. True story.

**Chapter Seven**

No matter how hard he stared at it, the wall wasn't going anywhere. It remained wedged across the pool. Sturdy. Steadfast. Unmoving. A stony dead-end in a journey that had barely begun. There was an answer—he knew there was an answer. An answer much simpler than the problem would indicate. He just couldn't see it. He couldn't get close enough to formulate a plan.

Couldn't get close enough to see what exactly what he was dealing with here.

"Not as easy as it seems, now is it?" Larry observed from the sidelines, munching on something only a creature of his breed could find appealing. "All that tough talk…just gone."

"Sod off," Spike muttered, casting a hand through his tousled hair. His eyes remained transfixed on the stretch where the stone met water. The wall very clearly dipped below the surface, but how far? This angle didn't provide the greatest view, but he wasn't too thrilled with the prospect of sacrificing his skin to investigate. He only had so much of it, and something told him he'd need it in the future. If the first trial melted off his flesh the next might demand his entrails. Those were things not easily replaced.

Not to say he wouldn't heal. Skin, precious as it was, would grow back. Entrails might be a little trickier, but as long as his heart remained untouched and his head stayed attached, he didn't think he would crumble to dust. It might make eating and all other pleasurable pursuits a little more difficult, sure, but he could manage.

"I gotta see how far that wall goes," he said to himself. And there was only one way to do it.

He had to dive in.

"How far do you think you'll make it before you start to fry?" Larry called. "One extra crispy vamp, comin' up!"

Spike's jaw tightened. Again, he willed himself to ignore the demon and instead returned his attention to the pool. It wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. There was only forward from here. Pain was just a sensation—one with which he was intimately familiar. Pain he could survive.

The price was worth the reward. It was. He was here for a reason.

He was here for Buffy.

"Jus' water," Spike murmured again, reaching for the hem of his tee before pausing. On second thought, disrobing before taking the very literal dive didn't sound as good in reality as it had in theory. Clothing might slow him down but it provided a layer between his skin and the vat of acid into which he was about to leap. Better to remain dressed.

He just wished he'd thought of bringing scuba gear.

"Yeah," Larry agreed from the sidelines, smiling unpleasantly. "Just water. Just your plain ole, vamp-scorching water. You think many people would boil a pot just to dump it all over themselves?" The demon paused and waved a scaly appendage at the wall. "Not to mention, that's a dead-end."

A cold blast of indignation seized Spike's spine and held. "You know what you're not doing?" he ground out.

"Helping?"

"For starters."

Larry shrugged. "Yeah, well, that's not in my job description."

"Your…right. The job. That's what keeps it from being personal, yeah?" Spike replied, eyes again fixed on the wall. "You keep Buffy an' you keep your job. Doesn't matter that she jumped—"

"—to save the world?" the guardian cut in. "I'm a creature from Hell. The world ends and it's Black Friday down here, only it's our customers who get trampled. And golly, the job opportunities. Did I mention the job opportunities? New, exciting hell dimensions, plus we get to double our population. Earth just keeps getting bigger and meaner, and we reap the benefits if it ends." Larry smirked. "Meanwhile the only person who can save your world from certain doom just happens to be the little slip of a girl we have holed up for the next eternity. So yeah…I'd call it personal."

The festering rage simmering in Spike's belly quickly fired his nerves. Every muscle in his body tightened, and he instructed himself with empty words not to do something colossally stupid. He had to keep his focus on the wall. On the task at hand. If Larry managed to distract him, it could cost him everything.

However, knowledge could only get him so far. It couldn't prevent his mouth from running.

"Don't you know anything, you git?" Spike snarled, whirling around completely. "One girl snuffs it, the other—"

"Rots in jail. Don't _you_ know anything?"

The vampire froze, seized for a horrible instant by the memory of a nightmare. "But—"

"Faith's the girl, kiddo. She's the Chosen One, and all that. And since your girl was all noble and other soft, squishy humans decided to play interference, Faith didn't get the death she had coming. So she sits, wasting away all that glorious strength while things get worse and worse." Larry nodded to the barricaded tunnel. "Little Buffy was a reserve. She was the one who lived when she shouldn't, but she was the only chance the world had for survival. Now she's here…do you really need me to spell it out for you?"

Spike shook his head hard, willing himself to stop shaking. It didn't work. "She didn't die. She doesn't deserve this."

"Ah, but she did jump knowingly and willingly into a sea of hell-dimensions." Larry grinned unkindly. "Besides, since when does anyone get what they deserve?"

"You sodding—"

"And it's not like any of this matters, anyway. You're here for a reason, right? Her righteous protector—righter of wrongs, defender of justice, the Slayer's grand salvation…unless you're giving up already."

"You're pathetic."

"And yet, I'm not the one about to sacrifice my skin for a booty call."

There was nothing in that minute but white noise. Everything drowned away, and before logic could scream its warning, Spike was moving. Moving too quickly for his mind to slow his feet, for the bells deafening his ears to strike through the wall of rage caging him inside. It didn't matter what happened next, in that blind streak of insanity his outrage needed a channel, and the demon standing between him and Buffy was the best target.

He wanted Larry to bleed. He wanted Larry to suffer.

As Buffy suffered.

He never got the chance. The smack of the demon's retaliatory fist didn't register until the ground beneath Spike's feet fell from under him. It wasn't until his heels slipped over the rocky ledge that panic sliced through the black hatred permeating his vision and he realized, a second too late, he couldn't prevent himself from falling over the edge.

"Oh bollocks."

He hit the water with a harsh, unforgiving splash, and then there was nothing but pain. Torture in its purest form. It ripped through him, stripping him of every defense and rendering him a kicking mess of scalding flesh. Festering hot boils stretched across his body, fizzling feverishly until they popped, reformed, and popped again. Sharp pinpricks of scalding agony devoured his skin, burning deep into tissue and eating him from the outside in. It was a canvas of motion, thinning his flesh as layers dissolved, and baring raw muscle to the harsh whirlpool of toxic water. It sliced through his brain, disconnecting movement from thought. All he knew was he had to get out. Had to get to freedom. Nothing else mattered.

He had to survive.

Spike kicked his way back to the surface, releasing a hoarse, raucous cry as drops of liquid flesh slipped off his bones and puddled into the water. He could see the pink of his muscles. Saw the blood-red veins patterning his arms, naked and unprotected. He couldn't feel his lips or his fingernails. His hair was rendered a mat of burnt fuzz, scalp scalded and fried. How he pulled himself to freedom, he didn't know. The strength wasn't his.

Stone sliced against him. All went black.

* * *

He awoke hours later with a throbbing headache and a harsh buzz surfing his veins. Not three seconds had passed before things crystallized and hardened into fact. His skin was molten, but it existed. Where before he'd seen his blackened insides, he saw nothing but his body as it should be. Flesh again lined his arms and legs, again stretched across his belly, again mapped him head-to-toe. Invisible flames licked his scalp, but a touch of his hand determined his hair had grown back as well. Aside from the pain in his head and his sore, ravaged muscles, he felt all right.

Felt like he hadn't nearly boiled to death.

"The fuck…" Spike murmured, wincing as he sat up. The stone floor around him was splattered with freshly-dried blood. His blood. Blood which had poured freely from his body just hours before. Just hours. He'd nearly dissolved entirely…and yet here he sat. Healed. Scorched, but healed.

He ought to be dead.

Ought to be dust.

It didn't make sense. None of it made a lick of sense. The vampire grimaced and fought to his feet. The water was still there, as was the wall. And he was still on the wrong side of it.

But he was alive.

Spike glanced down to his hand, eyes roaming over the scar he received when he was eight—the one that had never healed—to the last flakes of black nail polish and the age lines etched in his skin.

Healed.

"I can't die," he whispered, turning back to the pool. "Jus' gotta get to the other side."

"You think so, huh?"

Larry was back, evidently. Or perhaps he'd never left. Spike didn't know, and at the moment he didn't care. His mind was running too fast to do an about face and address the demon at his back.

"Just gotta get to the other side," Spike repeated. "Without cryin' uncle. That's what this is, isn't it? Can't kill me. Jus' get me close enough. None of this can kill me."

It made sense in a strange way. A way he wouldn't question. And it had to be the real test: the knowledge that no matter how bad things grew, he couldn't see an end without surviving it. Either he survived or he failed. If he cried for help or screamed it was too much, the trials would end and he'd lose Buffy forever. Death was not an option. Death was too easy. If they offered him death, he wouldn't be nearly as much fun to torture. As long as he was here they could do whatever they willed to his body; if he failed, they had his defeat wrapped in a bow.

If he died, they still kept the Slayer, but lost his crippling devastation.

Despair tasted sweet. Spike, of all vamps, ought to know.

"Can't kill me."

Larry sighed heavily. "Okay, fine," he conceded, thundering forward. "So you can't technically—what's the word?— _die._ Not down here. Not while you're protected by our contract. And yeah, once people find that out, they're typically thrilled as a politician at a whorehouse…but it ain't all sugar and puppies. Not being able to die is a terrible fate at times."

Like Buffy. Buffy was trapped in Hell. She hadn't the luxury of death. Spike forced back an instinctive growl and shook his head, taking a step forward.

Life would be so much easier if he learned how to block out blokes who pissed him off.

"Take that dive and you'll be screaming for a death that won't come," Larry advised. "You know that. You barely lasted thirty seconds the first time; what makes you think this is any different?"

"I can't die."

"I tell you, that doesn't make any difference."

Spike shrugged. Didn't matter. None of it mattered.

He just had to get around the wall.

And the more he thought about it, the more simplistic the answer became. He was looking at it too hard—expecting a complicated solution when there was none. The pathway continued on the other side of the pond. The wall was all that stood between him and the rest of the tunnel. If an opening existed and wasn't above the water, it had to be below.

He'd have to swim deep into the pool to get to the other side.

And he had to do it without screaming his defeat.

_Buffy._

He had to keep thinking of Buffy.

"Right then," Spike murmured, rolling his shoulders. "Jus' water. It's just water."

"Yeah," Larry drawled. "Remember how well that little pep talk worked last time?"

Ignoring him, the vampire drew near the edge again. It was startling how innocuous something so sinister could look. Since his siring, there hadn't been much reason to gulp down water, but he did so from time to time, as he found it was an additive for keeping his body in shape. He'd traveled the world to see oceans: to watch the sun rise over the Pacific and set over the Atlantic. He'd dived into lakes in his skivvies with Dru cackling wildly at his side, her midnight hair streaking wildly across her alabaster skin. And while he'd had a run in or two with holy water, it had never been anything to alter his perception. He didn't hesitate when it came to showering or drinking or swimming or anything else he felt like doing on any given day. Water was water. It wasn't dangerous…not to him. Vampires couldn't drown, after all. What worry did he have?

Water would never look the same. Lapping so innocently against the stony ledge, bubbling little warnings of what was to come. He knew what was to come. In seconds his skin would be stripped off his body. In seconds he would be as close to death as he'd ever been.

In seconds he would wish for dust while begging for the strength to push onward.

"Here goes nothing," he whispered.

And squeezing his eyes shut, he dove in.

Pain was secondary. He had to remember that. Pain was a sensation that would fade once he made it to the other side. Water shifted and skin melted, and while he felt himself fading into a seemingly endless, unforgiving sea, he knew the other side existed. He knew he had to make it through.

For Buffy. He had to make it through for Buffy.

Flesh peeled layer by layer off his body, but he kept swimming. Boils blistered his body, but he kept swimming. His eyes were burned shut, but he kept swimming. Down, down. Down as far as he could take himself. Down until the wall was against his hand—his hand which sawed itself to the bone with every unforgiving stroke. He no longer had fingerprints and the soft, cushiony muscle that protected his palm had been ripped away. The water reddened with blood, and when he pressed himself again the wall, he felt the soft tissue in his arms cut clean through.

But he couldn't stop. Couldn't call for help. Couldn't scream.

He had to keep moving.

And when he went down far enough to be proven right, to tear through the opening which lingered just a yard off the lake-floor, the thrill of victory was enough to drown out the pain.

How he made it back to the surface, he didn't know. Nor did he know how he found the strength to swim to the shore. It took three tries to lift his weary, fragile bones out of the water, and when his body collided with the rocky ground, when he found himself deeper in Hell than he'd ever been, he dragged a gulp of air into his charred lungs and forced his twisted, lipless mouth into a grin.

He'd done it. He'd done it. He'd survived the first task.

He'd survived.

Thick, harsh bursts erupted through Spike's blackened throat, and it took a few seconds for even him to realize he was laughing. That he had anything to laugh about. He was crippled and crisp, but even now he could feel the cells in his body going into hyper-drive, preparing him for his next task.

Oh God. He had another task. Another task when all he wanted was rest.

He needed rest.

_No. Can't rest. _

"Rest…"

_Have to get to Buffy…_

"You did well," Larry said, his voice distant, if real at all. If the demon was actually near, he didn't reveal himself, and Spike couldn't tell as his eyes were welded shut. There wasn't an inch of him which hadn't melted like hot wax. "Yes, yes," the elusive guardian continued. "You did very well."

"Raahhh…."

"Oh, I'd save that voice if I were you." The ground hummed with the weight of a footstep, betraying Larry's position. Not that it mattered. If the demon wanted to kill him, there was nothing Spike could do to stop it. Even at full strength, it'd take a bloody rocket launcher to stop the beast…and Harris wasn't around to whip one out of his ass.

Good thing guardians couldn't attack, just spout orders.

And defend themselves if the Champion they were slated to annoy got stupid.

"Unless, that is, you're asking for something." Larry took another step forward. "You can ask for anything you like, you know. A glass of blood. Hell, a whole town of tasty humans to munch. You gotta be hungry after losing all that blood…and Buffy would—"  
"Aoooh."

A pause. "No, huh?"

_Don't accept what you're offered. _

Hunger could rattle his insides, and he knew it would. His body was too twisted with pain to identify one sensation from the next, but he knew his stomach would begin screaming once it remembered it was hungry. And while the thought of blood had his fangs tingling, had his demon roaring with delight, Spike hadn't forgotten. There were things he couldn't accept. He couldn't have blood. Not here. Not when it was offered. He hadn't just sacrificed his skin to lose everything now. _Don't accept what you're offered._ He would never forget.

"All right, then," Larry replied with a heavy sigh. "Suit yourself."

Then he was gone again, leaving the vampire to the dark.

"It's okay, now. Everything is okay."

Silence lied. Spike knew this better than anyone. When the night had deepened to its darkest, when most of the earth's creatures burrowed in for rest, the silence would lie. It would whisper promises the day wouldn't keep. It would speak of things his dreams had concocted and fade as soon as the slightest sliver of light speared its shadowy cocoon. Spike knew it well. He knew the silence lied.

And he knew it was lying now. Somewhere between asleep and awake. Between the dreams he'd had in getting here and lying on the stone floor as his body pieced itself back together. He knew it was lying. It had to be lying.

Nothing was okay.

"Go…away…"

"It's all right."

"Stop it."

"Look at me. We can go now. We can get out of here. We _have_ to get out of here."

He didn't want to look—didn't want to open his eyes.

She had the voice of a siren, and it was too good to be true.

Too bloody good.

"Not…real…"

"Look at me and tell me I'm not real."

The ethereal whisper faded into silence, cushioning his fall with white strands of hope. Spike swallowed hard and turned his face up. It couldn't be real—Christ, it couldn't be. After all he'd been through, it couldn't happen like this. They wouldn't just hand her to him.

"We gotta roll, Spike. Now. Get off your pale ass and get moving. I don't know how much time…I don't know if we have _any,_ but I'd rather not stick around to find out how right I am." She sighed. "Get up!"

Warmth consumed him but he railed against it. This couldn't be real—it couldn't be real. And he couldn't let himself believe. Couldn't let himself believe he'd made it…and yet that was her voice. It was her voice. No one could fake that voice. That tone. That righteous irritation.

Save the girl from Hell and she doesn't issue a thank you. It was her. It was Buffy.

A dam broke inside. _God._ It was Buffy.

The silence hadn't lied.

"Buffy," Spike choked, forcing his eyes open, willing her not to disappear.

And she didn't.

_"Buffy." _

"Finally," Buffy replied with a long sigh, lips twisting into a tired, grateful smile. "Welcome back."

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

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**Chapter Eight**

God, it was her. It was really her.

There had been a moment when she welcomed him into her home. A huge moment—the sort of moment that didn't care about time, or obstacles, or anything else that might interfere with its significance. Until Willow had told him Buffy's invitation hadn't been random—had instead been planned—Spike had assumed it probably didn't mean anything to her. After all, inviting him inside was easier than handing weapons over the doorway, minimizing the time spent in the house. It would get them to Dawn sooner. And there was always the fact that she could banish him from her home at any time she liked. In the end, even if Buffy _had_ wanted him back, the invitation itself probably hadn't meant a lick to her.

To Spike, it had meant the world. Those seconds existed as affirmation that he had done something right. In the time between the colossally stupid idea of chaining her up and threatening her with his murderous ex, to allowing a god to torture the stuffing out of him, he'd evolved into something more than a vampire was meant to be. Something worthy of her space, if not Buffy herself. The days leading up to the invitation had intimated the same; she'd brought Dawn to him for protection, she'd come to him about the Winnebago, and she'd told him she needed his help…trusting he wouldn't ask for anything in return. She'd defended him when her friends jumped down her throat at his presence, and she'd held his hands, if a bit roughly, to inspect the place where he'd held off a sword to save her life. The Buffy of Old wouldn't have cared enough to even acknowledge he'd been hurt. The Buffy of New—the Buffy he'd seen emerge after her kiss of gratitude, cared enough to…well, care.

That last night, she'd invited him into her house. And she hadn't bristled and stormed away when he began speaking, when he revealed how much her gesture, small as it was, meant to him. When he acknowledged she would never love him. Being treated like a man, though…that meant the world.

Spike hadn't remembered that after she jumped. That morning, standing in the shadows to avoid the sun, eyes fixated on the square of concrete where her body should have lain—where Buffy should have been. Tears scalding his cheeks, his body shaking with harsh, terrible sobs, he hadn't remembered anything of what had passed. All he had was the sure knowledge of what was to come.

Buffy was gone. She was gone, and he would get her back. His promise solidified in those horrible moments following the time when the world didn't end. He'd known then he would travel to the ends of the earth and beyond to bring her back where she belonged. It didn't matter how far he had to go. It didn't matter how long the journey took. It didn't matter what he had to sacrifice.

He would get to Buffy and he would bring her back. Back into a world that wouldn't give her rest.

A world she had been willing to die for.

The journey to the center of the world had so consumed him that Spike hadn't fathomed what he would do when he actually saw her. How he would react. How every twisted feeling, every breathless emotion he had ever entertained would evolve into a harsh, excruciating mass of raw energy. How even hearing her voice would trigger tears. He'd come so far in such a short amount of time, and here she was. Her beautiful face cascaded by shadows. Her soft skin just inches from his fingers, hair tumbling over her shoulders. Buffy. _Buffy._ She was here. She was with him.

And he couldn't speak. Couldn't find words—could barely remember the words he wanted to find. His skin was on fire, still sizzling from the aftereffects of holy water. Every nerve in his body ached, tenderized to the point where even blinking hurt. But it was all right. Everything was all right, because Buffy was with him.

Buffy was with him.

"Buffy…"

"Gotta get a move on," she was saying hurriedly. "The demon'll be back at any minute."

Spike inhaled sharply. "Larry."

"That's the guy."

"The guardian."

She paused to favor him with an arched brow before rolling her beautiful green eyes. "That's right," she agreed slowly. "The guardian. The one we really don't wanna run in to down here. Come on." She extended a hand. "We gotta run."

Nothing. He couldn't move. Just seeing her had fried what little was left of cognitive thought. "Buffy…God…"

_"Now_ would be good."

"Are you hurt?" Spike asked instead. It took a few long seconds, but feeling eventually returned to his numbed senses, encouraging him to his feet. He blinked at her rapidly, waiting for the shadows to stake their claim. They did not. Buffy stood before him as though she had never disappeared at all. Beautiful. Irritated. Ready to leave.

Ready for him to lead her to the surface.

Perhaps it didn't matter that none of this made sense. Rationally he knew he was still in the tunnel. Still two trials shy of earning entrance into Buffy's personal Hell. What did it matter, after all, if she was right here?

And that was the bitch. The alternative was too painful to consider. It wasn't right. He knew it wasn't right. And he knew it was deliberate. This was too sweet to be real. Too much what he wanted to have it so easily handed to him. A thousand different instances, stolen moments, and painful regrets spanned their relationship. Since he saw her dancing in the Bronze—watched proudly as she killed the Annointed's lackey. Since he devoured her confused face as her eyes drank him in for the first time. A thousand moments. A thousand things he'd do over again if given the chance.

She'd kissed him. She'd invited him into her home. She'd treated him like a man. And then he'd lost her.

_He'd lost her. _

The hope in his chest was too brilliant to crush, but the longer Spike looked at her, the more aware he became of his reality. Two tasks left. Two left before he could see her. Before he exited the tangle of caverns and entered a reality Buffy had created.

Not the girl standing before him, because this wasn't truly Buffy. This Buffy was unchanged. This Buffy was a constructed caricature. Captured in a memory—a snapshot in time. It was the picture of Buffy he'd known for so long, not the one who had emerged in the last days. This Buffy lacked warmth. Lacked heart. Lacked gratitude. She was beautiful, of course, for she wore Buffy's face, but she was also cold. And Buffy, the true Buffy, was never cold.

Even when she shut him out, she did it with enough heat to power the sun. Buffy wasn't cold.

And this wasn't Buffy.

Hell had provided him with what he wanted most, and ripped it away just as quickly. Tears stung his eyes, directing his gaze downward so she wouldn't see them spill. He wouldn't cry here. Not in front of one of _them. _

They were using Buffy's image for a reason. They knew what giving her to him would do.

She was his test. His greatest trial.

"You were here?" Spike asked softly, doing his damndest to hide how hard he was trembling. "Just…here."

"Waiting," Buffy agreed.

"The others said you were with…that you'd fallen into a hell dimension. One you created."

She made a face and waved a hand. "Nope. Just here. Just…caught between realities, I guess. But you got to me, Spike. I can't thank you enough." A light burned her gaze, twisting and turning dark. And in that second, the proverbial ceiling came crashing down. The hollowed chambers of her eyes reflected a dark, endless nothing. _Nothing._ No kindness. No warmth. No soul.

There was no soul in her eyes.

Something crashed within him, screaming its outrage. Knowing it didn't make the proof any less painful. Any less heart-breaking. It was still her face. Her face. Her likeness. Larry and his friends had stolen her image and plopped her in front of him, a glass of water for a man who was minutes away from dying of thirst. And they dared assume he wouldn't notice.

Pure, black rage hardened his veins, and his thoughts must have been broadcasted for the Buffy-mask rolled her soulless eyes and tossed her head back. "No," she retorted in the Slayer's stolen voice, moving forward in the Slayer's body. "We knew you'd know. I wasn't exactly discreet."

Spike shook his head, feet moving before his brain could catch up. "Get out of my way," he snarled, brushing passed her with hard, unrelenting fury.

"We just thought you'd like to see a version more like yourself." She appeared before him in a blink, her arms spread. "Call me Buffy 2.0. Better. More advanced. Guilt-free. Not hampered by the pesky little conscience that kept your girl from enjoying your more…" A disgusting beat passed between them as she raked her eyes over his body, licking her lips, "carnal attributes. Think of the fun we could have. You. Me. The world wouldn't know what hit it. We'd paint it red, and enjoy every minute."

A low snarl rolled through his lips, his fangs itching, demon roaring. "Out of my way."

The mask pouted Buffy's pout. "You don't wanna play?"

"You're pathetic."

"No, sorry, sweetie." She tapped his chest, scorching him with her touch. "That'd be you. Here I am. The epitome of any man's fantasy. Having it all, right? You could have it all. Have me. Have your precious _Buffy._ Have the world at your mercy. Hell, get that chip out of your head, while we're at it. There's nothing we can't do down here, baby. And you don't even want a taste?" The mask tsked and shook her head, sighing heavily. "Nope. Sorry. Pathetic's really the word you want to define you."

He stared at her for a long minute before breaking away with a harsh, incredulous laugh. "This is it, then?" he demanded. "This is what you gits decided to send me? A mock, skank-slayer all dressed to please an' thinks the wrapping is what matters?" Spike shook his head, eyes blazing. "The wrapping's nothing but pretty paper an' bows. I had the wrapping, pet. I bloody well shagged the wrapping. I don't want Buffy's face, I want _Buffy._ An' I won't settle for some two-bit trick."

"You really think you got a chance with the real thing?"

"No," Spike barked. "Because she _is_ the real thing. An' the real thing's too bloody good for me. Too good for _you._ She belongs to the world, an' that's what I'm gonna give her."

He was gone, then. A whirl of movement, feet carrying him as far from the imposter's face as they could bear. He moved without thought, without direction, without anything save for the knowledge that he had to get away. Get away from her, from the false image of the Slayer's face. Away from the taunting rhetoric delivered with the Slayer's voice. Away from everything that presented an image of what he didn't have.

How much further he still had to go.

The hunger gnawing at his insides went ignored, as did the ache of his muscles and the weariness in his bones. The only thing that mattered was putting space between him and the mask—the only thing that mattered was moving deeper through the tunnel. He would do his best to ignore the shattered pieces of forgotten hope that lay scattered along his psyche, mourning the loss of the impossible. While it had been obvious—and it _had_ been from the start, he couldn't help the raw, unadulterated hatred from spreading through his body.

They had dared use her face. They had dared use _her_ to test him.

They had dared give him hope.

God, he was such an idiot, such a bloody blind git. He'd wanted it too badly. He'd wanted to believe and therefore had allowed himself to be played for a fool. He'd heard her voice and, though he'd known it was impossible, he'd allowed himself a sliver of hope. For one blessed moment he'd envisioned it was over. The long, grueling days followed by nights without her. Without Buffy. The familiar pathway to the Summers' home, long and empty. The town filled with people who didn't know to mourn for the girl who had saved their lives by forfeiting her own.

He'd imagined warmth in a world left cold. And they'd played him for a fool.

"Second trial," Spike murmured, stumbling against the cavern wall. "I passed the second trial."

"You did, indeed."

It took some effort, but the vampire found the strength to roll his eyes. "'Lo Larry," he drawled. "Was wonderin' when you'd be back."

The guardian flashed a particularly ugly grin. He had materialized from nowhere, standing just a few feet ahead with a nondescript glass curled in his claw. Something told Spike he didn't want to know what it was. "Just can't get enough of me, can you?"

"We won' know until we try, now will we?"

"Awww, don't be like that. You can't expect us to play fairly, now can you?"

"Bit too much to ask, I suppose." Spike staggered onward, doing his best not to growl when the scent hit him. Blood. Fresh blood. It was in the glass. Larry had a glass of blood. And God, it felt like years had passed since he'd eaten. Since he'd even sniffed, much less tasted blood that was not his own. The bagged stuff Rupert had shoved down his throat had long since drizzled into nothing. Perhaps his stomach had opened as he thrashed against the sizzling boil of holy water. Perhaps it was just what he needed to heal properly. Or perhaps he'd been a captive of Hell's labyrinth longer than it seemed.

All he knew was he was starved, and Larry had blood.

Larry was offering him blood.

And he couldn't take it. Couldn't accept what was offered.

Pain sliced through his gums as his fangs descended. His eyes burned and his stomach growled, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't let anything slow him down.

Just one more test. One more.

_One…_

Larry grinned nastily and held up the glass. "Drink?"

Spike roared and shook his head, a knife cutting through his brain. Every instinct in his body was against him. Blood. Sweet blood. He needed blood. Without blood he would wither away into nothing—become a living corpse in every sense, but one who could never truly taste death. Caught in limbo without an exit. He'd seen it before. Seen vamps chained by righteous townspeople and made to starve for generations, time weathering their skin and insides until they were nothing but skeletons covered in raw, tender tissue. Never dead, for starvation couldn't kill a vampire. And that was the real bitch. Starvation couldn't kill.

Bloody hell. Thoughts like that would get him nowhere. He'd gone longer without food. The days following the Initiative's playing around in his cranium had been the longest of his life. This was a sodding cake walk in comparison.

"No drink?" Larry called after him.

"Leave…me…alone."

"No can do, buckaroo. You and me have unfinished business."

Spike shook his head again and staggered onward. "No more," he murmured, waving the demon off. "Leave—"

"Is that defeat I hear?"

Another snarl tore through the vampire's throat, and against his better judgment, he whirled on his heel. "Do we…really need to go through this again?"

"The bit about you not giving up?" Larry ventured.

"I don' give up."

"Yeah, I thought that's what you meant."

"But I'm done with you. You, your li'l cronies, all of it. Whatever's next is next. I don' need you whisperin' in my ear."

Larry quirked his head. "See, here's what's funny about that. I didn't realize you were the one drawing up the rules."

"You sodding—"

"And here we go again with the insults. They really don't work, you know."

"You sent me Buffy!" Spike roared. "You tried to…with _Buffy." _

"Technically it _wasn't_ Buffy," he replied. "And here I thought _that_ was the problem."

"She—"

At last, the seemingly unmovable demon snapped. It was nothing remarkable. Nothing Spike could have predicted, but he was beyond the point of putting wagers on the table. One second Larry stood opposite him, bemused, and the next he'd rolled his putrid eyes and exclaimed: "Of _course_ we sent you Buffy, you moron! What, you think we just started torturing people yesterday? She's your greatest weakness. Your Achilles' heel. Your faux fucking pas. You've made a good many mistakes in your life, my friend, but none so many and great as those made after your precious slayer came into your life. She's the reason you're here, right? The reason you're letting us do whatever the crap we feel like—because you need to get to _her._ Do I need to remind you again where you are? This ain't Disney World, pal, and we're very good at what we do."

Spike shook his head and turned again on his heel, rushing down the open tunnel. Rushing deeper into darkness, uncaring of what lay ahead. The pathway twisted and narrowed, expanded, and narrowed again. The third trial. He needed to get to the third trial. Buffy lay beyond the third trial, and he was so close. Christ, he was so close he could taste it.

Holy water had burned and he'd survived. Buffy had tormented, and he'd survived.

He didn't care what lay before him so long as it got him where he needed to be. Hunger chased him and he ignored it. Fatigue nipped at his heels and he ignored it. Dizziness pounded against his brain and he ignored it. He ignored everything. Everything. He just needed to run.

Needed…_needed…_

Needed to get away.

"Close…"

And he was. He felt it. He felt how close he was.

The tunnel widened just a fraction, his weak eyes fixating on a nonexistent light. So close. _So close…_

And in an instant, everything changed. He didn't realize what was happening until it was too late—wouldn't have thought anything of it, even if he had. It was something small—something he'd felt before. Something so incredibly insignificant his brain would have failed to register. It was innocent enough. Things like this always were. Faint wisps of soft thread slipped over his arms and snagged his neck, roping around his legs before he could blink. And in a hair of an instant, the floor slipped from under him, jerking him to the fiercest halt he'd ever known. Spike howled, his head rocking back, a tortured gasp clawed for freedom as his mind raced, his starved stomach dropping from under him and his stilled heart thumping hard against his chest as though clamoring for freedom.

Spike blinked hard, gulping harsh breaths and craning his neck the best he could to figure out what the bloody hell had happened. His arms pressed against the restraints to little avail, his feet kicking, his body contorting, but nothing gave way. He was captured. Caught. Suspended awkwardly a good two inches off the ground.

_Caught. _

Then he knew he wasn't alone. The guardian was back. The guardian had never left. He'd probably followed him through the shadows. Watching. Waiting. Laughing.

Knowing all along how much further the vampire had to travel.

"Yeah," Larry said as he stepped out of the darkness. "This looks messy."

Words abandoned him. Spike had nothing to offer but a stare.

"Third trial," the demon explained. "This is it."

Incredulity took him by storm. "This?" Spike demanded, straining against his binds. "This is the third test?"

"The spider-web. You've done really well. Incredibly well, actually. I can't remember the last time someone made it this far." Larry inclined his monstrous head, banging his claws together in something resembling applause. "Really, William, well done. Though I gotta say, I knew you'd do it all along. That hero complex of yours…you got it, and by gum you wanna put it to use. So you don't give up. Not even when the odds are dead against you."

Spike ignored him, eager legs twitching. Buffy was just a little further down the tunnel. He knew it. Christ, he could taste it. "What's the test?" he demanded. "Tell me the sodding test."

"The test?"

"Yes!"

Larry looked at him a minute longer, sighing heavily. "You never talk to me nicely," he complained. "Would it kill you to say _please_ every now and then?"

"Don't fuck with me. What's the test?"

"All right, all right. Mr. Touchy." The demon blinked hard, shook his mammoth head again, and waved at him. "That's a spider-web," he explained. "Or…the rough equivalent."

Spike's eyes shot to his arm—to the white, filmy thread binding him in place. "All right," he said slowly. "I'll buy that."

"And this being the third trial, we obviously want it to be the most difficult…"

"'Course."

"But really, I don't think we ask too much." Larry shrugged. "All you have to do is…well, hang out for a few days. Three days, to be exact. Three of your world's days. No more. No less. I'll check on you every now and then—"

"Three days?" Spike barked, unwittingly straining against his confines. "Buffy's already waited—"

"And she can wait longer."

"She needs me!"

"And providing you get this right, she'll get you." Another shrug. "I really don't see what your deal is. After all, you've come this far. What's three more days, huh?"

A sodding eternity. Spike's eyes fluttered closed, forcing his temper back.

Three days. Just three more days.

Three days of knowing she was just a little further down the tunnel. And she needed him.

In the end, he had no choice. There had never been a choice. Buffy was the only option and he wouldn't turn his back on her. She'd waited a week while her mates pieced together theories and methods and dug around old books for demonic fairytales. She'd waited as Larry toyed with her fate, constructing hoops and commanding Spike to jump. She'd waited for so long, and though it killed him, she would have to wait now.

He was the only hope she had, even if she didn't know it.

He was all she had.

And to be saved, she would wait longer still.

He just hoped time hadn't already cost them everything.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

**ATTN: For those of you waiting for my Seasonal Spuffy fic, I have elected to not post it here due to the graphic sexual nature of its content. This is a decision I often make with my one-shot PWPs. With plot!fics such as this and others, sex isn't the objective and therefore, to those readers who made a porn-free zone, perhaps less offensive. PWPs are entirely about sex and have no so-called "substance," therefore an artistic argument can't really be made, and for those reasons, this story won't be debuted here. However, if you're interested and want to read it, it's called "One Little Dance" and can be found at my website (see profile for URL). **

**A/N:** I really have to give a shout-out to **Just Sue** for her help in a segment of this chapter. Well, her help in this whole fic, honestly, but she really took a segment of this chapter and said what I wanted to say, only better. I then took what she had and applied my own changes to it to keep it mine, but the changes themselves were at her guidance, and I thank her. Of course, all my betas kick ass, but she really came through for me in a big way. Thanks, hon.

This story, along with Southern Comfort, Healing Crystals, and Elements, has been nominated at the Sunnydale Memorial Awards! Thank you SO MUCH to whoever nominated me!

Lastly, thank you, my readers, for continuing to hold on with me. Your response has been overwhelming, and I really, really can't express how much that means to me.

I don't have Chapter 13 done, so I'm gonna have to book-it since I'm caving and posting this now. Bear with me.

**Chapter Nine**

Silence.

God, silence killed.

Spike had learned long ago that the earth could never truly be silent. Even in the quietest part of night, something living stirred and created sound. Birds. Insects. Wind rolling through leaves. The rumble of a car driving through an underpass. A cat leaping out of an alleyway dumpster. There was always something. Always something—something to remind the world that it was still turning. Something to remind the world that silence was only a blanket for a terrain that never stopped screaming.

He'd never known true silence. Even before he clawed his way to freedom under a mound of fresh earth, he'd heard Drusilla singing in the distance. Murmuring lullabies, calling to him, coaxing him forward. Telling him what to do and beckoning him to join her so they could dance naked in the moonlight.

It had never truly been silent. Silence was where the dead lived.

In the tunnels of Hell, nothing moved. Nothing rustled. Nothing chirped. Nothing lived. The tunnels were absolutely silent, and silence was enough to kill.

"Three days," Spike murmured, straining against the webbing. "Jus' three days."

After having come so far, there was a certain measure of frustration and anxiousness in the knowledge that he was in the last throes. Seconds couldn't tick by fast enough. His mind turned itself over with image after image of what might await him after the trial was over. If Larry would just shake his hand, tell him he'd done it, and wish him well. If there would be any last attempt to stop him from doing what he'd come here to do.

And beyond that…

Buffy's personal inferno lay just yards away. He couldn't see it, but he knew it had to be so. He knew he had to be close. His heart twisted and his stomach clenched, fatigue wearing him down. Strange that he had nothing to do but rest—nothing to do, and yet it wasn't forthcoming.

He couldn't rest. He needed rest, but he couldn't rest.

In three days he would be with Buffy. He would be in Buffy's Hell, and he couldn't rest knowing that.

Three days.

Just three days.

*~*~*

Day three came and went. There was no way of knowing, of course, when exactly the clock turned over the seventy-second hour. He just knew. He knew three days had gone by. He knew he should be free.

He should be, but he wasn't.

_He wasn't. _

And though his throat ached, it didn't stop him from screaming.

Even if his voice did nothing but ripple along the cave walls, echoing down an uncaring passageway before dying out completely.

"Hey!" Spike shouted, borrowed strength fusing his muscles and pulling hard against the thin threads holding him in place. Nothing came of it—the web wasn't loosening, wasn't relenting, and he wasn't going anywhere. "Hey! Larry!" He yielded, sucking in a deep breath. "It's been three days! _Three days! _Where the bloody hell are you?"

Nothing. _Nothing._ He didn't expect anything. Not after hours of being ignored.

Didn't mean he would stop. He couldn't stop. He'd served his time.

Buffy needed him.

Buffy was waiting, suffering, burning, and Spike was just a few precious feet from freedom.

And he wasn't being answered.

"Hey!"

Sharp pinpricks scratched at his throat. His eyes watered. His chest ached. Insistent pangs of hunger roared through his starving body, but he ignored it. Ignored it as he did the dying echoes of his cries, as he did the strain in his arms, and just as he did the pain shooting through his legs. He ignored it.

And waited.

It had been three days and he was still here. He was still hanging uselessly while Buffy drowned in her nightmares.

Three days. It had been three days.

And he was still here.

*~*~*

Consciousness came and went. There were times he thought he slept for days. Weeks. Times when the pain in his body cemented and became a part of him—a part without which he might not survive. His weakened eyes didn't notice when his skin began to thin. His crippled arms didn't care when his muscles began to give. Nothing mattered. Nothing but time.

And he had time. He had a lot of time.

Couldn't be easy, could it. Three days turned into something else. Three days in his world. On Earth. In Sunnydale. Three days there meant nothing to the world below. Three days in Hell might as well be forever.

It could be forever.

"_Buffy…"_

*~*~*

Time was a man's worst enemy.

He just hadn't realized it before, had taken it for granted as he'd watched the changing generations, the birth and evolution of technology. He'd seen more than he could ever have imagined; horse-drawn carriages turning into motor cars, flying without feathers, the birth of jazz and music without melody. So much had marked the passing of a century; two world wars, and a cold one. The redefinition of racism; concentration camps for Jews and Asians, genocides in countries no one seemed to care about. Scientists discovering how little it would take to blow apart the world, then sending men to the moon to kiss the stars. Walls going up and coming down. Unimaginable human slaughter broadcast worldwide and shared by all through colored tubes. Stamps and envelopes exchanged for printed words without paper.

He'd seen it all, had sat back and watched, not caring very much. He'd watched history unfold and make itself. He'd find someone to eat, turn on the telly, toss an arm around Dru and wait for the next day to arrive, only mildly interested in the disasters man wreaked upon itself.

He'd had time. He'd had so much of it.

And now he had more than he could stand: weeks, months, years. Good lord, years. Had it been years? He didn't know. Time had no meaning. Time was without shape.

Time was endless, and he had as much of it as anyone ever would.

Hanging. Waiting as his insides rotted.

Waiting for something that didn't come.

It helped to have her with him…and she was with him. She was always with him.

To see her, all he had to do was close his eyes.

All he had to do was close his eyes and he wasn't alone anymore. She was there.

*~*~*

"It's sweet, the way you won't let go."

It took a few minutes to realize the sound in the air belonged to a voice. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard someone speak. And even after he realized it was a voice, the words themselves were fragmented, torn apart, without logic. He heard himself talk often, though it was never aloud. It was always internal.

He couldn't risk his voice. It hurt too much to speak.

"Darling, right here."

His head might as well have been weighed with lead. It rolled uselessly from side to side before the muscles in his neck strained and he successfully lifted it, leaving only the mechanics of raising his eyes. He hadn't expected to see anyone in the cavern—after all, it had been long enough his mind might have begun playing tricks on him. Or better yet, perhaps it was another false face. Another faux Buffy to taunt his loyalty. To doubt his determination.

Another Buffy.

Not the one he wanted. The one he needed.

The one waiting.

Spike blinked at the shadows, seeing nothing. And before he could help himself, his jaw fell open, sore from inactivity, and his raspy voice clawed mercilessly at his throat. Whatever he said faded into a hard, crippling cough. His eyes strained but did not water; the fluid in his body drained away long ago. It took a second but he decided to try again, raising his eyes once more to the relentless dark.

_Who's there? _

"You don't remember? After all we shared…" Then a woman was there, taking form in the midst of the shadows, materializing from nothing at all. A woman: a pretty woman with eyes as pitiless as the silence. "Well," she continued, shrugging a shoulder. "We didn't share much, did we? You didn't care for me, and God knows I couldn't stand you."

He stared at her and waited for his mind to switch on. It had been so long.

_Darla. _

The woman smiled. "That's right, precious."

_You're not real. _

"Of course I'm not real." She rubbed her belly, her head cocked to the side. "I'm…well, I think I'm in Mexico City, looking for a cure for the disease your grand-dad put in my belly. And you're here. Just…what? Hanging around?"

Spike just stared at her, lacking the strength to shake his head. Darla. Christ, he'd almost forgotten what Darla looked like. And he knew she wasn't here—wasn't with him, but wasn't in his head, either. His imagination might be vivid, but he certainly wouldn't have conjured the vision of a relative he could barely stand.

She wasn't here. And she wasn't in him.

_I'm dying. _

Darla smiled a soft, nasty smile. "No, sweetheart. You're not dying. You can't die when you're already dead. But you're not going anywhere, are you? You're just…here." She spread her arms demonstratively. "Just here. Waiting. And here's the truly funny part…you don't need to be. You could be up there." Her head inclined just slightly. "With your…would you call them friends? They'd understand. You tried. You failed. It happens every day."

_No. _

"Why are you still waiting?"

Spike's eyes fluttered shut, where awaited Buffy's face.

Buffy was always with him. Always. When he closed his eyes she was there. Waiting with him. Waiting.

Because no matter how long he waited, she waited longer.

And he wouldn't leave unless she was at his side.

*~*~*

It was strange. When he closed his eyes the scene often remained the same. The terrain of the tunnel he'd memorized so long ago. As far as his weak eyes could stretch, he saw in the plane of his mind. And most always when he retreated inward, she was waiting for him.

He knew she wasn't real. He also knew she wasn't one of them, one of the voices from the cave. One of the agents sent by…whoever, was pulling his strings to get him to give up. He knew because she was the perfect essence of a memory. His memory. She was preserved there for him, kept him company in the midst of his own nightmares. Her face unchanged, her hair just as he remembered, her eyes sparkling with the same warmth he'd known in the last days.

Buffy waited for him when he closed his eyes. When he closed his eyes, he was made whole.

"They've started, haven't they?" she asked when he stepped inside himself.

Spike smiled wearily. "You're always here."

She shrugged. "I'm always with you, so yeah. How else do you think you're gonna stay sane?"

"You keep me grounded, pet."

Buffy grinned at him, her nose doing that cute scrunchy thing he'd always thought adorable, begrudgingly so or not. "Think I've heard somewhere that you're your own best friend. Guess that's where I come in."

"I'll take you any day compared to what's out there," he replied, nodding as though the world outside his subconscious was a place he could take her. As though she would—she could—be with him when he opened his eyes again. "You said they started. Reckon that means you figured they would."

"No, we've been over this," she replied somewhat sternly. "If I'm not here, it means _you_ figured they would. I can't know anything you don't know already. Remember, buddy…this is your head."

He nodded. "Right… An' you're here for me."

"That-a boy."

Spike sighed heavily and lowered his head, resignation shuddering through his body. "Figured it wasn' enough to leave me alone as long as they have," he said. "Knew they'd up the ante."

"Yes, you did." Buffy offered a tired smile, lifting her hair off her shoulders and pulling it into a ponytail. She did that often without even realizing it—fidgeted, busied her hands when she spoke, as though inactivity would render her useless. It didn't matter that she didn't have a tie or that her hair would eventually fall back across her shoulders. She needed to keep busy. She always needed to be doing _something. _

"They had to try," she continued. "I mean, you've been a puppet on a string for…do we even wanna know how long now?"

No, he really didn't.

Buffy nodded. "You're not going anywhere, and I think it's finally getting through to them."

A harsh laugh rocked his chest. "Let's not get optimistic here."

"If they want you to cave, they're gonna get nasty. We're okay with nasty, aren't we?"

Spike looked up, inhaling deeply. Her eyes were perfect, everything about her was perfect. Every last detail, just as he'd committed them; every line on her face, every freckle, every scar which had faded but not healed completely. Perfection. His kind of perfect—and she always had been.

Perfect for him. Spike's perfect.

And it killed him that she wasn't real, that she wasn't with him. Knowing that when he returned to reality—to the place existing outside his mind—Buffy would be gone. She would be gone because she wasn't here. She was still so far from him.

So far, but if he opened his eyes, he'd see the way he needed to travel. He'd see the path that taunted him. The path he couldn't walk.

Three days. Just three days.

Three long, long days.

*~*~*

It helped to think of hunger as a disease. Made the pain just a notch or two above unbearable rather than steer him to full-blown madness. Hunger could drive a man insane. He'd seen it. Watched it. Laughed at the misfortune of others as he went on his merry way, drank his fill, and lived his unlife.

Hunger could drive a man insane.

Hunger was a disease. It crippled. It made him weak. Made his body disintegrate. Made his muscles decay.

He couldn't die. He couldn't eat.

All he could do was wait.

*~*~*

"Y'know, I went to Hell once."

Spike's eyes had been sealed shut longer than he cared to consider. When the phantoms came, he heard them but didn't watch. It often took days to remember their names, and longer to remember their faces. None of them mattered. The only one who mattered was the one in his head, the one at the end of the tunnel. The one waiting.

Today he decided to be ballsy. Today he decided to open his eyes.

He just didn't realize what a trial it would be. His skin had faded so long ago, pressing like film against rotted bone. How he did it, he didn't know. He didn't even know if he had eyelids anymore. And it didn't matter.

None of it mattered.

"Yep. I was in Hell. Wasn't like this, though."

A male this time. A male Spike knew. He'd been here before. Several times. And each time it grew more and more difficult to remember who he was.

_Angel. _

"Angelus," the figment replied, rolling his eyes. "I figured you'd get it by now. Angelus. Not Angel. Angel's…I dunno, helping the…puppies or children, or something to that effect. Whatever it is he does now. Vampire detective. A vampire who detects. Not Angel. Angel would be what _she_ sees. You're a different story."

_My…mistake._

"Back to what I was saying before you…" The figment's jaw ticked, "forgot my name. I was in Hell once. Not like this. Mine was, oh, I dunno, useful. More actual torture. Guess they didn't think you could stomach that. They left you to do yourself in. But in the meantime, I wonder what I'm doing to _her_ where _she_ is. Now Buffy's a girl who knows how to make her Hell…worthy."

Amazing how so much rage could filter through his fragile bones. It would probably render him in pieces had the web not held him together. He'd learned over the last few years that, while memory was a funny thing, it was also subjective. He remembered everything about where he was and why he was here. He remembered the agony after she jumped. Watching her fall through the sky and land nowhere—it was something he couldn't forget, would _never_ forget. As he wouldn't forget the contours of her face or the ring of her voice. Buffy was the one thing he couldn't forget.

The one thing he held on to.

"She lets me have my way with her, you know," Angelus continued. "You know how many times a guy can rape a girl in the span of eternity? Guess we could find out. After all, this is about her worst fears…isn't that what you thought? I'd be there, you can count on it. Over and over. Killing her as many times as I like. You'd be there, too, I'm sure. At least _I'd_ think one of her worst fears would be dating you, don't you? It sure as hell was up there."

Spike just closed his eyes again, which took almost as much effort as had opening them. If he waited, Angel's ghost would fade into the darkness and grant him a reprieve. The git would be back, undoubtedly; he always came back. The lot of them did. They took turns. Darla. Angelus. Dru. Even Harm had piped in once or twice. They used different words but said the same thing.

None of them got him to budge. He hung in his prison.

Wasting away.

And waiting.

*~*~*

There were times he slept for years, or at least it felt like it. He would fade away and wake up forever later only to find more of him missing. The last time, he felt his hair begin to drift away. When he woke up it was gone entirely, leaving his head feeling as if a thin mess of tissue barely covered his skull.

This was one of those times. He awoke years older. And still here.

Still hanging.

Still hanging.

And it would take forever to fall back asleep.

*~*~*

"Blood?"

There was a demon in front of him. A demon whose name he knew. A demon he did not have to wrestle his memory to recognize. It was the first time that had happened. The first time thoughts did not hurt. Spike knew him. He knew him immediately.

_Larry. _

The demon smiled encouragingly. "That's right," he agreed, thrusting his arm forward and dragging attention to the glass in his claw. "Blood?"

The disease called hunger reared its ugly head, cracking at his bones and making his stomach tighten to the point he thought it might actually fall from his body. His fangs pierced through what little tissue was left over his gums, pain shocking raw, tender nerves and triggering a silent scream that might well have rattled him to dust had it managed to escape. Hunger. God, he was so hungry.

_So._ _Hungry. _

"I bet you are," Larry cooed. "Hell knows I'd be. So if you want something to drink, all you gotta do is ask."

_No. Can't. _

Fuck, it was so hard to remember why. He was sure he'd known at one point. Known why he couldn't eat. Known why he couldn't do anything but wait as his body weathered away. It had made sense once, not too long ago. It had made sense. There had been a reason for abstaining. A reason. And even with every corner of his body aching, with starvation carving through his insides, he knew he couldn't. If it had been important once it was still important. The rules hadn't changed.

No amount of decay could dull Buffy's face.

This was for Buffy.

_For Buffy._

She kept him sane. When he closed his eyes, she was there. She was the reason. She was all the reason he'd need.

All the reason.

A resigned sigh rolled through Larry's bulky body, and he nodded his defeat. "Suit yourself," he said with a shrug, pouring the contents of the glass onto the stone, sending a whiff of fresh blood to the remnants of Spike's taste buds. "Well, I got some good news."

News. News was a good thing. News had to be a good thing. News meant it was over.

It was over. _It was over._ Relief swept over him. A tidal wave of pure, unadulterated relief.

It was over.

"Yes," Larry agreed with a nod. "You did succeed. You survived Day One."

And just like that, relief fell into something dark and ugly. Something Spike couldn't wrap his mind around. The rest faded to a dull buzz. He didn't hear. He understood, but he didn't hear.

Day One. Day _One._

_Three days. Three days. _

He remembered three days.

"Gotta say, I'm impressed. I really thought you'd cave around, oh, year fifty or so." Larry shrugged. "Yeah, in case you didn't have it figured…one day upstairs, a hundred years downstairs. So you got through Day One. Bravo. I mean it, bra-vo." The guardian offered a nasty grin, wiping his claws and taking a step back. "If you get through Day Two, I think you just might make it. Until then…you can, you know, call if you need me. Otherwise, well, I'll see you tomorrow, big guy."

Despair seeped into his bones. Larry faded into the shadows.

Leaving Spike alone.

Leaving him with nothing but her face. Her face which gave him light in darkness.

_Day One._

Buffy. He had to keep his thoughts with Buffy. _Buffy._

A hundred years for a day. She'd been gone almost a millennia. A sodding millennia. He wasn't going to cry foul. Not for three hundred measly years. He could survive. He could survive for her.

_God, _he hoped so.

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N**: Thank you so much to everyone who responded to my last chapter. You guys are so generous. Thank you.

And, of course, thank you so much to my lovely betas.

**Chapter Ten**

It was strange how hunger never abated. He'd known all kinds of pain in his time; burnings, stabbings, bullets, holy relics, and more punches to the head than any ring fighter had ever taken. Even the worst of wounds faded after a while—the pain was fleeting. Always fleeting. Once his body adapted, he would forget. He would move on.

Hunger was a pain that didn't let him forget.

He imagined himself as a skeleton covered with a thin layer of skin. What little he could see determined his blackened, rotted bones and his naked, exposed inner organs. The first time he'd tried to look had left him screaming silently, for his throat had long lost its ability to produce sound. His heavy head had swung southward, crusted eyes soaking in the sight of his shriveled heart protected by a slip of silk-fine flesh. When he breathed—which he didn't anymore for the pain it caused—he'd watched his shrunken lungs expand and deflate with morbid curiosity. It was awful, and it was real. It was his reality.

He had no idea what had happened to his clothing. Had he had clothing? He couldn't say. Perhaps the fabric had melted away in the pool of holy water—perhaps Larry had stripped him to further his humility. It was anyone's guess. Likewise, his hair was gone as well. That was something he knew without knowing. Just as he knew the only thing keeping him alive at all was the webbing that had captured him in such a way that his fragile body was still intact.

_Please…_

He didn't know for what he begged anymore. Rest, perhaps, but it often took years to find rest. True rest. The rest where he could retreat within himself and lie dormant until Larry visited again.

But even then, he feared rest. He feared how his mind might deteriorate if he allowed it to sleep. Without Buffy there to talk with him, what might happen when he shut himself down.

How the world could change.

What he might forget.

*~*~*

A constant echo in his head—a reminder. He needed this. Needed the repetition. Needed it to strike an inner chord. If he lost it, he would lose everything. He was supposed to lose everything. This test—the waiting—it was designed to capture him forever. They didn't expect him to fail. No, no. That was too easy. Fail and he could go home. Piece of bloody cake.

Her memory was the only thing that held him here. Her memory, and his promise never to forget.

_I'm Spike. I'm Spike. My name is Spike. Spike, Spike, Spike. _

Over and over. He couldn't forget his name. Couldn't. The ghosts hadn't visited in years. Hadn't stepped out of the shadows to poke fun at his torment. Hadn't the decency to remind him who he was.

_I'm Spike. I'm Spike. I'm Spike. _

He had to hold on to that. He had to remember.

_Don't forget your name. That's what she said. Willow. Was her name Willow? She had red hair. I think she was Willow. Willow sounds right. She told me not to forget my name. _

And so long as he kept repeating it, forget it he would not.

_I'm Spike. Spike. Spike. My name is Spike. I'm Spike. I'm Spike…I'm…_

*~*~*

"Spike."

He opened his eyes slowly, wearily, knowing immediately he'd stepped within himself. It was always safer in here: safer, warmer, and there was no pain. No pain inside his head—not when he could again feel his fingers and toes, again sniff the air, stale as it was. Again see properly. Inside his head he was at his best.

Inside his head was where Buffy lived.

And Buffy helped him remember.

"That's it," he agreed tiredly, sagging in relief. The terrain might be the same as his prison, but at least, when he was withdrawn, he could move. Didn't matter that his body never got this respite. He was always sore, of course, because reality remained just outside the door, but here, Spike could pretend to be all right.

When he was safe within his mind, he could pretend he was whole.

"Yeah, it. Your name. The thing you're not supposed to forget." Buffy crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. "You freaked me out just now."

"Sorry, pet."

"Don't give me 'sorry!' Spike, let's do this again. Willow told you…what?"

He turned his eyes downward, shamefaced. Christ, how she could make him feel like this when she was a figment of his own bloody imagination was beyond him. Yet he was grateful. Extremely grateful. Buffy kept him grounded—kept his eyes on the prize. Kept him in a place where he remembered what was at stake. It was so easy to forget otherwise.

So fucking easy.

"Not to forget my name."

She nodded heatedly. "That's right."

"Been over a century, pet, by my count. Figure points for rememberin' this long, yeah?"

"Well, if that jackass we call Larry has ever once told the truth, we got a little while longer to wait." Her brows perked and her arms folded perfectly across her breasts. "Can you hold out that long?"

Spike smiled. It was so easy to smile when she was around. "For you? Love, for you, I could walk on water."

"No need to get sappy," she replied, lips twitching. "This is serious, William."

"I know." She only called him _William_ when it was serious. "I know it is."

"The first century nearly killed you."

"Can't kill me," he retorted. "Killing would be too bloody merciful, now wouldn't it? Same thing with the holy water. I remember that. There was a pool of it…I jumped in, burned mostly to death, an' was right as sodding rain after a bit of shut-eye." Spike sighed heavily and shook his head. "Can't kill me. Vamps can't die of starvation."

There was a considerable pause. Buffy shuffled restlessly, her feet sliding against the rocky ground. She wanted to pace. He knew she wanted to pace. Pacing kept her in motion. Pacing allowed her to do what he could not—move. He couldn't move; couldn't feel the flow of air between his legs. Couldn't feel anything other than useless and dead.

She was the part of him that kept on living when the rest wished for darkness. Buffy made him alive.

"You do look bad, don't you?" she whispered, her eyes widening. "I mean…out there."

Spike licked his lips. "Can't see me out there?"

"No, because you can't."

"An' you can't know what I don't know."

She nodded. "Right."

"Because you're me, not real, an' I'm alone."

"You don't have to be so morose," she retorted grumpily. "It's easier when we make-believe…otherwise…Spike, what the hell are you doing?"

He frowned and spread his arms. Might as well pretend he could, while they were pretending everything else. "'m standing here. What?"

"You know you can leave whenever you like. Just pack up and go home. No one would blame you. For Pete's sake, you've been hanging like a…a…a guy who hangs for over _a hundred years."_ Buffy shook her head and shivered. "You didn't know what you were getting in to when you signed on for this gig."

Spike laughed bitterly. "An' you did?"

"Hello? Of the Chosen, here. I had an inkling."

He arched a brow. She shuffled more.

"Well, I did! How many slayers live to see their sunset years, huh?"

"You will," he said firmly. "Once this is over. I've waited this bloody long, Buffy. Don't _you_ start telling me I'm better off packing it up. I can't leave you here. I _won't." _

"Why not?"

"Because I love you."

"You love me," Buffy repeated, nodding and licking her lips. "Ever ask yourself why?"

A harsh laugh rumbled against Spike's chest. "Aside from every bloody minute of my last year with you, you mean? Every second since that dream…up until the Tower? No, pet. Not anymore."

"Look, I know you felt bad because I leapt, but—"

Another harsh laugh. He blinked at her incredulously. "Bad?" he repeated, then again, quieter to himself. "Bad she says. Yeah, kitten, I felt pretty bloody _bad._ I made you a promise, didn't I? An' I let it…I let you jump."

"Actually, you made a promise to protect Dawn. Dawn's still alive, isn't she?"

"No thanks to me. I could've beaten the bloody doc, pet. I know I could have."

Buffy smiled warmly. "Isn't it great the way your memory sharpens when we go over this?"

He wished he could smile back and mean it; nothing could eradicate the knowledge that he would return to his world alone, starving, and less than half a man. Whatever he remembered here, he remembered because of her. Because it was tied to her. Tied to Buffy as she lived within him. It had nothing to do with memories returning or knowledge he kept from himself until he wasn't fully conscious; it was because the day she'd disappeared would forever be engrained in his mind. The cold slab of empty concrete where she should have lain—no, that and everything relating to it would be with him forever.

"It's you," he replied instead, shrugging half-heartedly. "Of course I remember it."

Her smile faded a bit, a more serious countenance taking over. "I just…I wonder if it's really worth it, you know? You say you love me, but Spike…you know that I—the other, not-so-pleasant _I_—you know I'm not going to just fall into your arms or anything. I'm downright bitchy at times."

That comment earned a laugh. "Bloody right, you are."

"But you love me."

"I love you. An' I don't care what you give me in return. I don't care if I don't even get a thanks." A pause. "Well, yeah, that might brass me off a bit, but Christ, love, I'm not in this for me, an' if I am, it's because I know that whatever I suffer here is nothing compared to the few days I lived in a world without you."

"Sappy," she accused again.

He shrugged. "I wasn't called a bloody awful poet for nothin'."

"You wrote poetry?" she asked, her nose crinkling.

"Think so, yeah. It gets fuzzy after a while, my memory. But that sounds right." Spike broke off with a shudder. "I mean it, though. What I said. Living through this is bloody torment, but I know there's an' end. It will end eventually. But if I go back without you, knowing I gave up…you're worth it, Buffy."

She looked at him for a long, quiet moment, her eyes dark and contemplative. "Am I?"

"I told you, I love you."

"Yeah, I know that, but which me do you love? I know you love talking with me now—as I am right here when I'm with you. But the other girl, the real one, the one you're trying to reach…she's not me."

Spike reared as though slapped. "Of course she is."

"I'm your ideal."

"Rot."

"I live in your head, Spike, I think I'm on even ground here."

"My ideal is you," he retorted, muscles clenching with long forgotten irritation. "Jus' as you are. Just as bloody infuriating as you are. If I wanted you to be any different, you would be."

"You're reaching."

"An' you're daft." Spike turned away before his anger became visible. "I love Buffy. I love her because she's _exactly_ like this. Like you. You think you know things—how I feel, what I'd do, an' you don't have the firs' fucking clue. She's brilliant, but God, the clumsiest girl I've ever seen. Resourceful. Beautiful. Funny in her own way. You really gotta listen, y'know? Sometimes she doesn' know she said something clever…other times, her eyes light up an' it's bloody Fourth of July, the way she smiles. She doesn' think she's smart, but she is, an' it's so…an' she's kind. To me when I din't deserve it, to her friends who _rarely_ deserve it…to everyone. Caring…God, she cares so much. She loves with everythin' she is, an' she doesn't know how special that is. Doesn' know how rare. An' even if she irritates me to no bloody end, I'll love her until I'm dust."

A long silence settled between them before Buffy's lips quirked, tugging upward into a soft grin. "Well, when you put it like that, I do sound pretty amazing."

If anything, her concession only fueled his tantrum. "An' you're her! You're so bloody convinced that no man will ever love you. The _real_ you. You think it's impossible to be loved without being put on a pedestal—the way your precious exes did. You don't get that from me an' you never will. There's a reason you're in my mind the way you are, kitten." He shook his head heavily. "I _had_ the fantasy. I had you without your personality in my arms, in my bed, an' it wasn't enough. It could never be enough for me. That piece of wirin' would've done anything for me, an' she did…an' yeah, I liked it on a purely carnal level, but that's where it ends. She wasn't enough, an' she never could be. She had your face…but she wasn't enough. Having her didn't make me want Buffy any less. God, if anything, it just made me realize how lonely I was. How I'd never have what I really wanted. I never wanted the bot. I want _you. _I want Buffy jus' as she is. Nothing else will do for me. _Nothing_ else. An' if I have to wait here three _thousand_ years, it'll be worth it."

The look in her eyes wasn't unlike the one she'd given him in his crypt over a century before. The day he'd told her—thinking she was a machine—that Glory could kill him if it meant keeping Buffy and her sister safe. The warmth. The gratitude. The softness. She was so giving. She was always giving. Always.

And she wasn't real. None of this was real.

Spike smiled gently, relaxing his shoulders. "See?" he said. "If you were the fantasy, that would've been your cue to leap into my arms an' demand a good shagging."

She glanced down with a laugh, wiping at her eyes. "Point."

"I have you here as I'd want you in reality. I love you. I love _Buffy._ Jus' as she is." Spike looked at her for a second longer before breaking away, shaking his head with a short chuckle. "God, no bloody _fantasy_ could drive me outta my mind like you do."

Buffy shrugged. "What can I say? It's a gift."

"Infuriatin' chit…"

"Hey!"

Spike offered a thoroughly unapologetic shrug. "Well, you are, pet. No use bein' nice for the sake of manners. I am evil, remember?"

Her faux-indignation fell into a fond smile, reaching up to cup his cheek with a tenderness which would—in other circumstances—have nearly sent him to his knees. "Yeah," she agreed softly. "Yeah," she agreed softly. "Evil."

The word was spoken with soft irony. He appreciated it.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I know."

"An' I'll do whatever it takes."

Buffy nodded. "I know, Spike," she replied. "I know."

He looked at her as long as he could before reality began pounding against the walls protecting him. It would be so easy to overlook where he was; he could say whatever he wanted in here. To the Buffy who kept him company in the long, cold hours of his sentence. It was refreshing, in a way, spilling every word of everything he'd wanted to tell her in their last year together, but at the same time, there was no forgetting it wasn't real. The conversations he had here wouldn't carry over into reality. Perhaps he'd get to relive them with the real Buffy; he didn't know. He had no way of knowing.

But he'd die for the chance.

*~*~*

Once upon a time he'd relished every minute. Every minute of every day he lived. Every minute was exciting—every minute led to the next. A surprise. Life in motion. He'd laugh and cry and shake his head before diving in again. Time was ever-changing. Time forgave. Time surprised. He loved living because he never knew what would come of it. What he would see. What would happen next.

That had been a long time ago. A different place. A different world. A different life.

Every minute was the same.

Every bloody _second_ was the same.

Nothing ever changed.

*~*~*

"Pretty boy, all alone in the dark."

That voice. He knew that voice. He'd once followed that voice over continents and oceans. He would have followed it to the stars had it asked. After all, its owner had once been his world; his whole bloody universe, his reason for living. His reason for _everything._ And even if he couldn't remember her name, or what she looked like, it struck a deep enough chord to ensnare his attention.

She always did when she visited.

"Could snip your strings, if you like," she continued softly, moving closer. He couldn't see her—his eyes had been closed for years now, and he didn't care to open them. His world didn't get better the more he looked at it; his mind was a much safer place. "Could let the dolly walk on its own. Would you like that, dolly?"

_Go. Away. _

She whimpered her puppy whimper that had once been one of his greatest weaknesses. "Don't want any crumpets? I could get you something tasty, my sweet. I could fill that rumble in your belly."

He was sure she could. For a price. A hefty price.

A price he was unwilling to pay.

"Make the stars cry. Such a strong boy once…till the morning took you." She sniffled pitifully. "Can't help. Can't touch you. Why won't you let me touch you, William?"

The thought of her skin on him made him hiss. Spike flinched inwardly and willed himself into the darkest corner of his mind. Away from her—away from her voice. Away from everything that could touch him.

Silence was better than visits from phantoms.

*~*~*

He lived for talks with her. For seeing her. For merely being in a place where he could watch her face. Though seeing her grew more difficult over time. Sometimes she didn't come—sometimes he was too weary to summon her face. Sometimes he waited for hours. Waited for her to step from the shadows of his mind and fuel him with the warmth and hope he needed to keep him company through the lonely days. Sometimes he waited forever.

She didn't always come. He didn't know why—perhaps he wasn't strong enough to bring her forward. Perhaps his mind was abandoning him at long last. Perhaps a thousand different things.

And then, a ray of sunlight through building clouds, she would be there when he least expected it. Smiling. Welcoming. Reminding him.

Her name was one he would never forget. Even if he lost his own, Buffy would remain with him.

_Can't lose…can't forget…_

It was difficult holding on when his brain threatened to shut down. When he wanted it to shut down. When he wanted nothingness more than anything else.

When he wanted the deep sleep of a thousand years to get him through his trial.

*~*~*

_Spike._ _Spike. Spike. My name is Spike. _

*~*~*

"Spike," she whispered, running her imaginary hands through his nonexistent hair. Her touch was so soothing. So warm. He loved her for her warmth. "Spike. Hold on. Hold on, Spike. It can't be much longer. We're almost there."

God, if only it were so.

*~*~*

_My name is Spike. My name is Spike. Spike. Spike. My name is Spike. _

*~*~*

"My, my, my, doesn't time fly?"

That voice. He knew that voice. It was the same he'd heard so long ago and required no introduction. He recognized it immediately, as well he should; he'd been waiting to hear it again for a century.

"Nothing to drink?" Larry asked, waving a glass of blood under Spike's nose. It wasn't as bad as before. His ability to smell had dwindled significantly over the past hundred years, though as his demon knew instinctively what it was, he wasn't spared the pain of his fangs twitching or the agonizing twist of his withered stomach.

Hunger had never been so demanding as it was now. When he had the hint of what he wanted within grasp. When he knew he had to turn it down.

_My name is Spike. _

"Good," the guardian cooed, thoroughly insincere. "You remembered."

_Can't…drink…_

"What, this? Surely one little sip won't hurt."

One little sip would kill. Hunger only hurt.

An inward laugh. _Hunger only hurt. _

When after a few seconds Spike failed to take Larry up on his offer, the guardian sighed heavily and, as he had a hundred years earlier, spilled the contents onto the stone floor before the starving vampire. "Well," he said. "That was certainly a waste."

_Not…my problem. _

"No," Larry acquiesced. "It's not. So, Day Two. You made it. Think you're ready for another?"

Spike didn't reply. A reply wasn't needed—not when the answer was obvious.

Two hundred years. He could push forward. He could endure. And he would.

After all, what was one more day?

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N**: I know these last few chapters haven't been pretty; I just wanted to express my thanks to all my readers who stuck it out. You guys are awesome, and you don't get told that enough. Thank you so much for your reviews, comments, and support.

Likewise, and as always, thanks to my betas. You ladies are amazing.

To everyone: I promise, your patience _will_ be rewarded.

**Chapter Eleven**

Her face was so bright. It was all he saw. Though his vision had faded well over a century before, Buffy's face served as a beacon to warm him through the dark. She was the one thing he remembered. The one thing he carried with him. Every time his mind began to slip, every time his body shuddered against the unforgiving silence, he summoned Buffy forward. And while the memory who spoke with him, who had kept him company these lonely years, didn't always come, her face was never denied him.

His light. The end of the tunnel—the end of _his_ tunnel, and it was in sight. It was so close.

So close.

Just a hundred years.

A hundred years of remembering what he wasn't supposed to forget.

_Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Keep your thoughts with Buffy. Buffy's what matters. Buffy's all that matters. Buffy. Buffy, Buffy…Buffy. _

"You sure do know how to hang on, I'll give you that."

The phantoms were back—he'd known they would be. It was the last century—the last day—and Spike hadn't budged. Not once. Not in the face of overwhelming odds, not when his body was a decrepit mockery of the man he'd once been, not when starvation pulled at his sanity and pain threatened to render his skinless bones to dust once and for all. Through everything, Spike hadn't blinked.

He'd endured what no man could endure, and they knew. They had to know he wasn't going anywhere.

Not until he made good on his word. Not until he got to Buffy.

It took several minutes to drag the face matching the voice out of his exhausted mind. There were times when Spike wondered if his memories of the spooks were real. Perhaps they were tormentors fashioned by Hell, given a fabricated past he'd come to believe because of relentless repetition. Spike didn't remember much of anything of his real life anymore. Had he even known Angelus before entering Hell? At this point, his memories might as well be fiction Larry and the supreme Gits That Be had created to further his torment.

Spike toyed with the idea often, and even though it sounded possible, even convincing, he always discarded it in the end. He didn't figure the few memories he had of Angelus would smart so badly if they'd never actually happened. If Angelus hadn't truly tasted Buffy's purity first. If a thousand bloody things.

There were some things that couldn't be faked.

"How do you think this is gonna end, hmmm?" the prat continued. "They let you go and you, what, walk out of here like nothing happened? You think you can do that? Pretend like you weren't a useless weight for three centuries?" A pause. "'Course, you had good practice at doing that before, didn't you? Guess that's why Dru kept begging me to fuck you outta her. And she did, you know. She'd run to me and straddle my face, begging for a good—"

A soft sigh rolled through his mind as Spike turned his attention inward. This was another reason he concluded Angelus was an actual memory and not an implanted one; the bastard's tactic remained the same, always the same. It was familiar enough to fan Spike's ire, and it never evolved into something sophisticated. No, Angelus blabbered incessantly and didn't seem to realize when his audience had drifted off to a better place. Most of his talk was about Buffy, but on occasion, like now, he'd try to scratch Spike's nerves by mentioning the woman from before. The woman Spike only recognized now as the one who'd made him—the one he might have loved, even if he didn't remember it.

Angelus couldn't torment him. Not now. Time hadn't defeated Spike; he certainly wasn't going to let anything else.

Only one more day—he was so close, even if the end remained decades away. He was so close. Ghosts couldn't annoy him. Not if he didn't allow it.

And he wouldn't.

They could talk. He would wait.

Wait for the end to come.

*~*~*

Years had passed since he'd heard her voice, seen her face, or watched her move across his prison. He didn't know what had happened, how he could have lost something so essential to himself by doing nothing at all. He spent hours reciting her name—her name, not his own, if only to live up to the promise he forged before even entering the mouth of Hell. Even if he forgot who Spike was, he would never forget Buffy.

And in doing so, she helped him remember himself.

_Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Think about Buffy. About Buffy. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. God, why doesn't she come? _

He tried so hard to see her, tried to remember why it had once been so easy. In the beginning, all he had to do to step inside himself was close his eyes. He'd close his eyes and she would be there. She would _always_ be there. He didn't see her now. He hadn't seen her in so long. _So long. _And her absence rendered his world a dark, hollow place. He was thoroughly gutted without her beside him.

_Even if she's not real. She's not real at all, is she? All in my head. Buffy's not here. She's waiting. _

The real Buffy had been waiting far longer than he could even dream.

A hundred years for a day.

Spike gasped, pain tightening his chest, his heart twisting. Every move he made introduced him to a new level of hell. It was agony, but needed. He needed to feel something—_anything._ Even if his body had withered to nothing, even if he was left with only a vacant shell for a body, even if… Pain kept him alive when he shouldn't be. Pain kept him feeling _something. _

Starvation. Would he ever eat again? He couldn't remember how blood tasted.

_Buffy, Buffy…why aren't you there? _

The dark offered no answer.

It never did.

*~*~*

"What do you think happens?"

It was another voice he knew—a voice he knew he knew. While it had remained dormant so long, his mind had come full circle in what he did and didn't remember. Over the past few years, especially since Larry's last visit, the phantoms had come to him almost daily. His mind was weary, but he knew who they were now. He knew who all of them were—he was able to identify them without struggle or undue concern; when it came to his blood-family, Spike reckoned he'd never again be able to forget them. It was only their faces that remained hazy; he recalled Darla had light hair, but couldn't piece together her eyes and nose in a manner that struck him as accurate. He often confused women's voices with Buffy's face.

Buffy was the only face he remembered clearly.

_You again,_ he replied in the only way he could.

"That's right," Darla agreed softly, her voice moving forward. "Me again."

_Bugger off. _

"Not exactly the ideal way to show respect for your elders, now is it?" she demanded, giving a long-suffering sigh. He pictured her folding her arms, because that was what Buffy so often did. "What do you think will happen if you somehow manage to get through these last few years, hmmm? Look at you. Do you really think you can manage the length of the tunnel to even _get_ where you're going? And what happens if you _do_ actually get there? You've become nothing. _Nothing." _

Spike didn't answer. He had no answer. It wasn't the first time it had been suggested, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. All he knew was he had to get through the trial. What followed might kill him, but he had to get there to give it a chance. He couldn't afford to worry about crossing that bridge when he was still on this one.

"What a sad case for the Slayer's champion," Darla mused thoughtfully. "But then again, that's you all over, isn't it, William? It always has been. So I suppose we shouldn't be too surprised."

Again, he didn't answer. There was no need.

Darla had given him what he wanted.

She'd spoken his name.

*~*~*

_I'm Spike. William. I'm William, and I didn't forget. I didn't bloody forget. I'm William. William the Bloody. Spike. I'm Spike. _

The silence didn't answer him.

_Buffy? Buffy…I know who I am, Buffy. I remembered my name. _

God, why wouldn't she come?

*~*~*

Strange how two hundred years couldn't change the habit of something that had been second-nature for half that time. Whenever he awoke from a deeper sleep—the sort that lasted a good generation or so—he always tried to open his eyes. Always. No matter that he'd closed them ages before in order to escape the visual reality of his personal hell, he always tried to pry them open.

Just as he always came around when his dreams forewarned he'd been silent too long. He hadn't had a reminder in years.

He would forget if he didn't tell himself who he was.

Darla's mistake, and his allowing himself to broadcast his relief at her mistake, had warded off the phantoms long ago. He hadn't heard a voice in years now. Not one of them, not Larry, and not Buffy. Buffy remained far from him—blocked away, shoved into some discreet room in his mind. He couldn't reach her, no matter how long he focused on her face. No matter how hard he thought about her voice. He couldn't call her forward—the ghost of the girl he loved; his memory and his faithful companion. He needed her so badly, and she wouldn't come.

_Buffy, Buffy…I'm Spike. I'm Spike, I remember that. I'm Spike. Gotta remember that._

And Buffy. 

No matter how often he repeated her name, she stayed away.

He had no idea how much longer he had, but it would feel thrice that without her. It already had.

She hadn't come to him.

Her absence made his bones ache.

*~*~*

Spike wasn't going to forget his name. It occurred to him one day while encased in silence, left alone by ghosts and ignored by the Buffy who had once lived in his head. Over two hundred years, likely bordering on three, and he hadn't forgotten. His mind, if anything, was quicker now than it had been a century earlier. He didn't know why or how that worked; the last day had been bloody hard on him, but his resolve strengthened with each hour. At one point, he'd been in true danger of losing his name—losing himself—but he hadn't. He'd had Buffy to speak with—Buffy to get him through the cold.

The ghosts could ignore him, and he'd remember. They could haunt him, and he'd remember. Perhaps his mind was becoming quicker again with age—it had failed him most profusely during the second day; perhaps he was maturing again. Growing up and finding himself in his prison. He didn't know.

And while he still lacked memories, he knew the only thing he really needed in order to survive.

He knew his name and he knew Buffy's. He knew Buffy waited at the end of the tunnel. The phantoms were insignificant; they were just voices, just personalities. There were some he recognized and more he didn't, and none of them mattered.

It was for this reason, he suspected, that the phantoms' silence came to an end. They realized there was nothing they could do, or not do, in order to make him forget. And they were getting desperate.

Therefore when they spoke again, they didn't shut up.

"Ugh. If possible, you look even grosser than before."

Had he been able, Spike would have rolled his eyes. He didn't remember who owned this voice, but he assumed it was someone he'd known before, even if he couldn't fathom wherefore or why.

"Like, way gross. Your little…slayer or whatever's gonna flip her lid when she sees you, and not in the good way. Bleh." She sighed, her voice migrating to the left. "You used to be something, Spikey. Remember that? We had, like, loads of fun. There was the time you tried to kill me, remember? And all the sex. We had tons of sex, and it was good. Do you even remember sex? If you do, you really can't tell me you like this more. _This._ It's all…dark and creepy, and you're all kinds of nasty."

A ghost of a smile drifted across Spike's lipless mouth. They were getting desperate. He felt it. There was no other explanation. They had dropped the attack on his memory and were instead appealing to his vanity. Letting him know how terrible he looked, how time had worn away at his body, how even freedom wouldn't mean anything. How his wretched legs wouldn't support him and his useless body would fall away within the first step to Buffy.

He wouldn't worry about that now. He wouldn't give Larry or his cronies the satisfaction.

Not when he was so close.

*~*~*

Spike hadn't seen anything in or outside his mind for at least fifty years, save Buffy's face. Buffy's face, which never spoke to him anymore. Buffy's face, which kept him satisfied while the rest of him starved. Buffy's face, which warmed away the chill surrounding him.

Buffy's face.

So it stunned him out of his proverbial skin when he heard her voice. He had drifted within himself to avoid the blabbering ghosts, and when he did, she was there.

For the first time in years, she was there.

And perhaps, given how he'd longed to see her, his first response wasn't the best.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?"

Buffy blinked in surprise, her brow furrowing. "Me? Where the hell have _you_ been?"

"Right here! What? You think I popped off on holiday?" Spike shook his head hard, relief weighing his worn, broken body so strongly it would have knocked him down in any other terrain. "You left me. How could you leave me?"

"Well, I'm a part of you, buddy, so you can't blame me," she replied, her hands coming up. "I've been here. You just haven't looked hard enough."

He stared at her for a long, incredulous second before cracking. He hadn't heard a sincere laugh in ages, and though his was born of frustration and disbelief, it was different from the mocking rhetoric lurking outside these protective walls. He'd be grateful to laugh were he not so aggravated.

"I haven't looked hard enough, she says," Spike murmured. "You have any idea what the last few years have been like? An' you weren't there! You left me—"

"I have so _not_ left you," she snapped, brilliant eyes flashing with ire. "I can't leave you, you jackass. I'm a part of you. A part of _you._ How can I leave you when I _am_ you?"

Spike's arms flailed upwards. "How should I know?"

"Then don't blame me! You think it's been fun trying to get your attention this long just to be ignored?"

"I would _never_ ignore you."

"And yet—"

"Stop. Jus' stop."

Her eyes widened in protest. "Stop? You storm in here without so much as a hello or a smile and start reading me the Riot Act, and you're telling _me_ to stop?" She shook her head, exhaling deeply. "I've been here, Spike. I've been waiting. You might not see me, but I'm always here. I can't _not_ be. I'm in you."

A hefty pause settled between them, her wisdom feathering over him and filling him with appropriate shame. He couldn't argue with her. There was no repudiating the truth, especially when he wasn't truly angry. He really wasn't. Not with Buffy—the real Buffy. He hadn't been able to reach his imaginary Buffy because of his own shortcomings, not hers, and scolding her was a way to punish himself. It made sense, after all; Buffy was a manifestation he'd created to keep himself company, and when she wasn't there he was irritated with himself. He'd been irritated for so long because it had once been easy, and he'd allowed it to become difficult.

"I know that," Spike confessed softly, sighing. "I've just missed you, pet. I've missed you so much. I din't think…these last few years…"

Tension rolled off her shoulders. Buffy glanced down and licked her lips. "I know," she said. "I saw it. I tried to talk to you, I really did. But you never heard me."

"I miss you."

"I know."

"No, _you._ The real you." He shook his head and turned away, the stirring of long-dead tears prickling his eyes. It wasn't real, of course. He couldn't cry in the real world. His body was a dry, dead leaf in the real world. But here he could cry. Here, in his mind, he could taste his tears and remember what it was like to live. "The Buffy…I haven't seen her in nearly three centuries. Heard her voice. Seen her face. I've been waitin' here, an' she's…"

"Don't think about that," Buffy advised gently. "We still have to get through whatever's left."

"I can't help but think about it," he replied. "They…the wankers who visit, they keep reminding me how I look on the outside. How much I've wasted away an' all. How can I get there if I'm so bloody—"

"You decided not to worry about that until you had to."

He frowned. "How'd you know?"

Buffy arched a brow. "Again. Me equals you. You might not have been too chatty with me, but that doesn't mean I haven't been listening. Plus, it's kinda hard to hide things from, well, yourself."

The corners of his mouth tugged upward. "Gonna have to get used to that," he said. "When I see you again an' you can't read my mind."

She smiled grimly. "No," she replied kindly. "No, you won't. Even if I have to remind you, you know I'm not real. If you didn't I wouldn't be reminding you at all. And it kills you, knowing this doesn't exist. Knowing whatever we've said here…it isn't real. None of it. I might never look at you out there the way I do in here." Buffy spread her arms. "And hey, you've been really good at portraying me realistically. I've never said 'I love you' or any other thing you know isn't true. You told me once I'm the girl, in here, that you want in reality. But the girl in reality is unpredictable. She might never—"

"I know that."

"She might not even wanna listen."

He shrugged. "An' if she doesn't, yeah, it'll hurt…but I'll manage. I'll survive…I will. That doesn' worry me. Just getting there does."

"It doesn't worry you?" Buffy arched a brow. "Spike, this is me you're talking to…and about."

He smiled softly. "You know me too well."

"So you are worried."

"You're me, pet. You suss it out." Spike sighed and shook his head. "What I want most of all is to have her, but I know that's not gonna happen. But she…the way it was at the end, she looked at me differently. An' even if she doesn't love me, jus' to be near her, welcome, is enough. It'll hurt, yeah, but I didn't get into this to win her heart. She's all that matters. Getting her out is all that matters. This has _never_ been about me. Might not remember a lick, but I do know myself well enough to know my plans always fall apart. Bloody always…an' that's because they were for me. This is for her, an' it's the one thing I'm not gonna let fall apart. I care what happens after, yeah, but not enough to let it worry me. This is for her. It always has been."

She looked at him just the way he remembered: with warmth and understanding, kindness and caring. The way it had been in the end.

Perhaps they were closer to the end than even he knew.

*~*~*

"What, exactly, have you done that's ever been worthwhile?"

Spike stirred but didn't respond. He'd felt his heart sink the second cold air brushed against his black, rotted bones, stirring him from his subconscious and into his bleak reality. Into the place where ghosts of his former life mocked what they couldn't see and pushed harder by the day to get him to cave. It was an act of desperation if he ever saw one. Every possible piece of artillery was aimed and ready to strike; he just had to make sure they continued to miss.

"I mean it, William," the phantom continued, her voice twisted with a sense of patrician entitlement he'd learned long ago to despise. This was another woman he didn't remember, but knew must have been important at one point or another in his life above. She was snobbish and judgmental, and her voice grated into him with ruthless efficiency—a bad tick that wouldn't go away. Whoever she was, he must have hated her to the core.

Again, she sighed and went on, "What have you done? You aspired to be so much once. A poet, though Lord knows how that turned out. A professor, a man of honor. Do you remember that, William? Do you remember when you thought you would conquer the world with academics and flowery words of beauty? You were once controlled by action and thought…now look at you." Disgust seized her tone and twisted; it was something to which he was accustomed. The visits from the others often reflected the same. "You're nothing. You've become absolutely _nothing._ Not a whisper. Not a peep. You just hang there while the world passes above you. In three hundred years, other men have conquered empires. Entire eras have come and gone, civilizations rising and falling again. And what do you do? You _hang_ and wait. You rot. You decay. And you think it will matter, don't you? You really think this matters."

She wanted an answer he wouldn't give. It was time to stop playing their game, time to stop speaking to them at all.

He would ignore them, now. Ignore them until the end.

It couldn't be too much longer.

*~*~*

One day he awoke, and everything changed.

Everything.

"Look at me."

He wasn't asleep. He couldn't look anywhere. His eyes didn't work anymore.

The demand came again. "Look at me."

A crushing sigh rushed though the vampire's frail body, his head trying to lift for the first time in over a hundred years. He'd forgotten how quickly fresh pain could shoot through his limbs, tackling the hurts of yesteryear and stirring them to consciousness with a swiftness that would put the Romans to shame. Hunger had been present always, giving way to starvation, but over the last few years, he hadn't felt it as vividly as he once had. His senses were dulled, his nerves and cells all but dead, and it was impossible for the dead to feel anything physical.

He felt it now. Hunger arose from the ashes, an irritated sleeping beast. It seized his every remaining fiber and demanded something for being disturbed. Spike remembered thinking, long ago, that hunger never died; he hadn't been wrong entirely, but he likewise hadn't appreciated the quiet after hunger retreated to hibernate. It was always there—had always been there—it just hadn't made as much noise as it did now.

"Look at me," the voice said again.

Spike hadn't the strength to open his eyes. He didn't even know if he had eyes anymore.

"Look at me."

And suddenly, without knowing how or why, it became easy. His eyes fought open against the vibrant agony running through his long-latent body, and he saw for the first time in years. It took a few minutes to adjust—for the blurs to manifest and take shape, for the sensitivity of disuse to fall away. It should have taken forever but it did not; everything was clear in a proverbial blink. Everything.

Hope and relief were dangerous things. Spike had learned long ago not to showcase them.

"I want you to see something," Larry said. Then, without awaiting anything, he brought his hands together and pulled apart a space of staticy fuzz. It was bright and offensive, yet triggered a memory Spike couldn't ignore. Television. It was a television without a box, tubes, or anything save the images telegraphed. A small formless screen set between the demon's palms.

There were people. Larry was showing him people. People he recognized from a distant dream. People he might know in a different life. People who were sitting around a table, and talking about him.

"It's been three days," one of them was saying. A male with dark hair, youngish from the looks of it. "I say we saddle up and head on in."

A redhead seated at the head of the table heaved an exasperated sigh. "Xander—"

"No, I'm tired of talking about this. Three days is like, what, a bajillion years in this place?" He turned to the older man sitting opposite him, anxiousness wiring his body. "You remember what you said when Angel came back from Hell, right? It was probably thousands of years for him. If time moves so much faster, why isn't he back yet?"

The man looked half dead, though mostly from worry. "We can't know what's happening, Xander. We haven't given him enough time."

"All I'm saying is, if we keep waiting for Spike, we might never get Buffy back."

"We don't have a lot of options," another voice said. Another girl, blonde, who was seated next to the redhead. "Getting Buffy back was more important to Spike than anything. If he failed—"

"How do we know that?" the one called Xander demanded. "I know…I mean, I know he…had feelings. Some of them, yes, might have been of the love variety. He was definitely the most mellow, chipped vamp we ever knew. But for all we know, he got there, saw what a bitch it was going to be, and, I dunno, went back to Plan A of torturing Dru to love him again."

The redhead looked deeply troubled. "I don't think so."

"How do we know?"

"We have to have faith," the older man said. "Spike is…he wasn't my first choice, but he was our only one. And, like Tara said, he cares about Buffy. We know he cares about Buffy…"

"Enough to withstand Hell?" Xander asked. "It's been three days. How long is that where she is, Giles? He should have been back by now."

Silence settled over the table, accented with uncomfortable glances and uncertain fidgeting. It took a few seconds for anyone to find a voice.

"We'll give them one more day," the older man said. "One more day, and then we'll look at our options."

"Giles!" the redhead protested.

"We can't put him on a time-table," the blonde agreed.

"We also can't afford to play fast and loose with Buffy's life," Xander retorted. "We have to do everything. Let's face it; we don't know what Spike's doing. The only thing we know is he's taking forever, and Buffy's the one suffering for it."

The screen disappeared without warning, leaving Spike's tender eyes drifting through wide spots of color and disfigured formations until darkness settled in once more, and he was able to tell Larry apart from the shadows behind him.

"They've given up on you," the demon said. "Just three days, and they've decided you're yesterday's news. They don't care what you've done or sacrificed. They don't care anything about you getting where they can't. You really want to keep fighting for this? For one of them? They don't have the stones to fight for you…why on earth should you keep going?"

Spike just stared at him.

"You can't tell me you aren't bothered," Larry egged.

_Can't be bothered when I'm not surprised. _

That wasn't entirely true, but it changed nothing. _Nothing._ Larry could show him whatever he liked and Spike would remain unmoved. He'd made it. Nothing could distract him from the knowledge that he'd made it. Larry only visited at the end of the century, and it had been three days. Three days—three hundred years. It was over, now. This endless torment was over.

Relief would have washed him away if it had form.

_It was over. _

Larry sighed, arms falling to his sides. "Well," he said, "you did it. Three days. I really wasn't expecting it. You—you were a surprise no one saw coming. I mean, yeah, you gave me warning enough, but I…I didn't listen. And here we are. You made it through. Way to go."

Not a word was sincere. Spike didn't care.

_That's nice. Let me go. _

"You still have to get there, you know. Out of here. Out of the tunnel. We ain't gonna carry you."

_Fine. Let me go. _

"And even then, getting in's nothing compared to getting out."

_Let me go. _

Larry sighed again. "All right. Let's get this over with. What's your name?"

There was no hesitation. His jaw had been locked shut for centuries, but found the strength to fall open. Likewise, his raw, dry throat scratched like plank wood, and his hoarse voice, which had not tasted the air in centuries, managed to utter a single word.

"Sccchhhiiiiiiike."

"And why are you here?"

"Uffeeee…"

The guardian stepped back, waving a hand. "You'll never make it out alive," he quipped.

Then nothing mattered. Nothing at all. The binds that had kept him prisoner for three hundred years loosened until they were no more, and then his broken body was falling hard and fast to the ground.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** So sorry for the delay on this. Aside from the tons of schoolwork I had to wheedle through, it was my anniversary weekend with my honey, so I was a little preoccupied. *giggle* But here's the next chapter.

Thanks to my betas and my wonderful readers.

**Chapter Twelve**

It had been three hundred years. Three hundred long, cold, lost years. Three hundred years during which his arms hadn't moved and his legs hadn't walked. Generations ago, he had closed his eyes without thinking of when he might see again, and his mouth had remained shut even longer. There had been times he didn't think tomorrow would ever come—that his life, his whole existence, would be summarized in his tragically anticlimactic end. If not for the constant thought of a girl he would not have survived.

He wouldn't have made it this far.

Spike moaned, bleary eyes blinking open without struggle. He saw. For the first time in three centuries, he saw the dark, jagged cave walls of the hell he'd entered so long ago. It was all familiar. All known. It was his domain now, the only one he remembered. The path he'd embarked on and refused to surrender.

The path that would get him home, would get him to Buffy

Pain. He remembered pain.

There was pain in the flow of energy through his veins, his cells communicating, sharing, trying to energize his dead body with nothing but dust coating his stomach. His limbs had been numb for ages, and now he felt. He felt everything; every twist of agony, every inward jab, every sharp jerk. There had been many times during his incarceration when he'd wished to feel anything, even if it was pain. Pain, at the very least, made him feel alive.

Made him feel something other than what he was.

And now he could move. He could see, he could smell and he could breathe.

His stiff joints didn't want to budge. Every flex of muscle had his body screaming.

Spike gasped, a harsh, raucous gasp that cracked against his chest. _Warmth._ The cold he'd felt so long had been chased away with the soft embrace of flesh. _He had flesh. _Soft, peach flesh stretched from fingers to toes. He'd forgotten how wonderful skin felt over bone. The cool air he'd felt against his lungs and stomach had vanished. And God, it was wonderful. So fucking wonderful. He'd never felt anything like this—nothing in the world could hope to compare. He had form. He'd been without it for centuries, but when he opened his eyes, he had form. He wasn't a twisted piece of rot anymore. He'd been made whole.

"What…bugger…"

It didn't make sense. None of this made sense. He remembered very clearly being told what would happen to him after the trials were over—remembered worrying about the day he'd walk free and his ability to get from his prison to the mouth of Buffy's hell. But he was whole once more—a man once more. The clothes of which he'd been deprived had likewise returned. His body was mapped with skin, his head was again covered with hair, and he was clothed.

He'd been restored…except for the ache in his stomach. The bottomless hole chewing through his insides was going to render him completely useless if he didn't get food. Food… God, he hadn't thought of food with any sort of hope or genuine craving in so long. It had been off-limits; even thinking of blood during his incarceration was enough to spark a surge of desperation deep enough to forgo the mission. But now he could think of blood. Dream of blood. Crave it.

Another day without sustenance would surely kill him. He had the body of a vampire that had been held without food for three days, but the mentality of one who knew the truth. Who knew he'd been without it for centuries. And he needed blood. He needed blood so badly.

_Buffy._

Spike swallowed hard and lifted himself onto shaking arms. "Buffy," he gasped, turning his newborn eyes to the pathway ahead. He had to keep focus on what was important. What had brought him here.

The tunnel had been his white bloody whale, but he wouldn't let it destroy him.

"It's a long way down," a voice cautioned. A voice Spike knew as surely as his own.

The stupid git wouldn't leave him alone for anything.

"Sod…off…"

"Well, well," Larry continued, "look who learned to use his words."

Spike's jaw tightened and the rest of him hardened with resolve. "If you're not gonna help," he gritted through his teeth, fighting back a wince at how the words scratched his throat, "then leave me the hell alone."

The guardian snickered. "The _hell_ alone," he cracked. "I get it."

A long, harsh breath shook the vampire's crippled insides. "Leave," he rasped, dragging himself a few inches forward with a gust of borrowed energy. "Jus'…leave."

Larry shook his head and placed a claw over his chest. "Dude," he drawled, "that really hurts. After all we've been through."

"Wanker."

"You really think you're gonna get there like this?" the guardian asked pointedly. "Look at you, man. You can barely hold your head up. How do you expect to rescue your ladylove from Hell when you can barely rescue yourself?"

Spike tried to glance up but decided it wasn't worth the effort; he would have laughed had he the strength. Three hundred years he'd waited for freedom—a little distance wouldn't kill him. He'd existed without flesh or blood, without anything but the hope of the woman waiting for him. Compared to what he'd been asked to survive, the rest was a bloody cakewalk.

"I'll…worry about…it when I…get there."

"Yeah," Larry agreed. "That's been your motto all along, hasn't it? No one was prepared for you. You warned us…warned _me,_ sure, but I could've sworn you were just crying wolf. And though I am way impressed, I gotta say, overall, not too happy."

Spike's fingers grasped the ridges in the ground, leveraging his weight the best he could as his worn body edged forward another few inches. His weak eyes couldn't see much beyond a few feet in front of him, and he wouldn't wager the scene would change anytime soon. Nothing but shadows and stone. Rock scratched against his belly, digging into skin and introducing him to pain he'd all but forgotten.

It had been ages since he'd had flesh to cut.

"It's gonna be a long night," Larry predicted.

Most likely; Spike didn't care.

Time didn't matter anymore. Not when he was so close.

*~*~*

He remembered.

Spike's eyes fought open, frail lungs inhaling a deep breath of dusty air. He'd fallen asleep. He didn't remember resting his head against the ground or allowing his eyes to rest. But he was awake now—awake and alone.

And he remembered.

There were faces he hadn't seen in centuries. People whose names he'd lost on the wayside of time. He remembered them, now. The windows in his mind were aligning, shining light on shadow-cast corners. Giles, Willow, Xander, Tara, Anya, and Dawn. Dawn. He remembered Dawn. He remembered all of them. He remembered.

Spike gasped, his hand straining forward to anchor himself on something solid. They weren't going to wait. They'd trusted him, treated him like one of them, patted him on the back, embraced him…and they weren't going to wait. Barely seventy-two hours had passed for them—had elapsed since Giles and Willow sent him off. They had treated him like one of their own. He remembered it so clearly.

And Larry had shown him what became of that trust. They talked about storming the gates of Hell like it was a bloody game.

It hurt but he wasn't surprised. He couldn't be surprised. No matter what had occurred the last few days he was with them, they wouldn't see him for what he was or what he offered. Willow and Tara had accepted him—he remembered that clearly. Remembered Anya's startling defense of him at the dinner table an hour before he'd set off on his journey. He'd been so grateful, so astounded, but even if he hoped otherwise, a very real part of him had known it wouldn't last. Tragedy often brought out the best in people, but it was a fleeting sensation. A quick glance at the way things ought to be rather than the way things were.

Three hundred years. He'd survived because he could. He was the only one who could.

He was so close. So fucking close. The end of the tunnel…it couldn't be more than a few yards away. While he saw nothing but darkness, logic told him it only seemed endless because he hadn't the strength to make the journey quick. How he managed to move at all on a stomach that had all but eaten itself to survive was beyond him, but he wouldn't question it. He still had strength when he should not. He had the ability to move when he ought to be dust. His body had healed itself with power beyond his comprehension. He would make it. He would.

This wasn't a trial. This was the passage he'd earned.

And he would make it.

*~*~*

Her fingers were in his hair, dancing over his scalp and sending small tingles down his spine. He loved it when she did this. When she came to him and favored his battered body with kindness and warmth—when she touched him like she cared. And he supposed she did care. She had in life. There, toward the end, she'd looked at him with compassion, and he'd carried her gaze with him when constructing her likeness in the seclusion of his mind.

The place where she'd kept him company these long, lonely years.

"You're almost there," she whispered, rubbing his crown tenderly. "You're almost there, Spike."

It took a long minute for the vampire to look up. "You're here," he murmured hoarsely.

Buffy smiled softly and nodded, cupping his cheek. "I came to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?"

"You're almost there," she said. "You've done so well, Spike. So incredibly well. You'll make it soon."

"My arms aren' working."

"I know."

"An' I can't feel my legs."

She nodded. "I know."

A ripple of nostalgia rushed through him, and he offered a watery smile in spite of himself. "'Cause you're me. This is it, innit? You're tellin' me goodbye because…"

Buffy shrugged. "I'm not needed anymore."

"Rot."

"Me. This me. You have what you need down there." She nodded to the endless tunnel. There was no sadness in her eyes, no resentment or regret. And he understood as he'd always understood, but in ways he couldn't appreciate until now.

During his imprisonment, despite her countless reminders, it had always helped to believe a part of her existed outside himself. It was improbable—impossible—but it had kept him from forgoing all hope, from giving up entirely. Buffy had saved him in his darkest hours without knowing it—she'd saved him with her memory, and the promise that was ahead. And while the conversations he'd had with her likeness remained precious to him, it was more for what they represented than what had been said.

He was close now. Close to the end, and his mind was reconnecting the dots separated so long ago. He didn't know how or why, and he wasn't going to question it. Spike understood this—he understood his need for the figment, just as he recognized he was not parting with Buffy by parting with the vision smiling into his eyes.

He couldn't part with her, because she was a part of him. And she'd kept him alive.

"Take care of me," Buffy said softly.

"I will," Spike replied. "I _will." _

"I don't know what's been going on…but it won't be pretty. _I_ won't be pretty."

"Bollocks. You're always pretty."

She rolled her vibrant eyes and shook her head. "Spike—"

"Gorgeous, point of fact. Oughta know, love…you were my light in the dark." He smiled, muscles surging with renewed strength. "I can't thank you enough for that. For stayin' with me even…even through the rough parts."

"You mean all of it?" she replied dryly.

"That's right."

Buffy pursed her lips and nodded, running her hand through his hair again. "She'll need you whether she admits it or not," she said. "Well, I really can't imagine her denying she needs you, but you never know. She's a bit stubborn…and I don't know if any amount of time in Hell could change that."

He grinned. "God, I hope not."

"You sure you're ready for this?"

Spike laughed harshly. "If I'm not, love, I bloody well don' deserve to be here. I know it's gonna be messy, but I love her. Through everything, _everything,_ I love her more than I knew people could love."

"And after everything you've been through…"

"I know. I'm pretty amazing." He snickered and shook his head again. "Seems that was your line, once."

"What's mine is yours is mine is yours." Buffy turned her eyes downward and exhaled softly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "You really still love me? Love her?"

"Of course."

"After everything?"

"I would've waited until the end of the world for her."

Spike looked at her a minute longer before allowing her to fade—the girl who'd been with him without ever being there. He'd said the same thing to himself so often. Whispered words of determination and dedication, all the while worrying his strength wouldn't be enough. But the words weren't empty, and they never had been. Once upon a time, even knowing his own capacity for love, Spike worried he wouldn't have enough to offer. There was a fine distinction between words and action, and he had always been a man of words—a man of conviction. He'd known he would die for Buffy…he just didn't know if he could live.

And he had. He'd lived.

It was just a little bit further.

*~*~*

A soft, yellow light spread across the cave floor. It was so faint, so distant, but it was the first light he'd seen in centuries and therefore nearly blinded him. Spike squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The light didn't fade. The light was there, beckoning him, calling to him, whispering this was the end.

_The end._

The light. The light at the end of the tunnel.

"God…" Spike gasped, summoning all his strength to lift himself onto his shaking arms. Tremors broke across his body, a hard, painful gasp slashing at his dead lungs. He wanted to collapse but he couldn't. Not when he saw it.

Not when it was within reach.

"_Buffy…"_

And he moved. He moved fast. Ignoring his body's pleas, ignoring his trembling muscles and numb legs, he moved fast. Moved despite limitations. Moved, moved, moved…

The light grew brighter, forms took shape. The nightmares he'd feared—the ones that had haunted her now for a thousand years. He couldn't see them, couldn't predict what lay ahead, but he kept moving. She was so close. She was there—_there,_ and he was so close.

Her world, her hell, was just a few feet away.

Light chased shadow. The rock walls around him disappeared. And before he realized it, before it registered, the ground beneath his hands led to nothing and he was falling. Falling hard. Falling fast.

Falling out of the tunnels and into a new world—into a world where Buffy lived.

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

My apologies for the brief delay; here's the next chapter! Thank you so much to all my wonderful readers, and to the person who so kindly nominated this story for Best WIP and Best Angst at the Rogue Poet Awards! It means more than I can say; thank you, thank you so much!

Also, my endless thanks to my betas. I don't know where I'd be without you ladies.

**Chapter Thirteen**

He fell forever.

There was a part of him that had forgotten color. He'd been relegated to darkness and shadow for so long that color itself seemed an abstract concept. He saw it when he retreated inward but never when he turned to reality. When his eyes had sealed shut he'd been left with but the memory of something brighter than the Hell he'd entered. Now he was falling in a sea of color. Yellows, oranges, and reds, swirling around him, cushioning and engulfing him completely until the ground was in sight.

Spike didn't remember the ground being so red.

Then the scent hit him. A scent so rich, so delectable, so achingly wonderful he wanted to cry. It was fresh, delicious, and overwhelming. Every nerve in his body sparked to life, his fangs descending and sending shock-waves of pain through his weakened gums. _Blood._ Blood. He saw it now; saw it clearly. A river of blood. A long, winding river of blood.

His body smacked the surface so hard it would have knocked the remaining life out of him had it not birthed a surge of new energy. Spike's mouth fell open, nearly weeping when blood poured in. _Blood._ He knew he should fight, knew he needed to examine where it came from, but Christ, he was so tired of fighting. His weakened stomach couldn't survive another day without food. He barely had the strength to open his eyes; fighting his instincts wasn't an option. Not now. Not anymore.

So he drank. Spike drank. Blood filled his mouth and trickled down his long-neglected throat, pouring into his stomach with such fiery rapidity he had to pace himself before his body locked up in alarm.

He'd lost himself in a sea of blood, and he couldn't stop drinking.

Gasping, his eyes turned to the skyline. A hazy curtain of yellow, accented with rolling, pregnant storm clouds and a few rumbles of thunder. He kept himself afloat, eager tongue lapping at the waves of blood that crashed against his mouth, mind lost to worry. This wasn't an offering of food; nothing like the red-rimmed glasses Larry had tried to give him over the past three centuries. Blood was already here—already lining the perimeters of a newborn world, and Spike had simply tumbled into it.

His long-useless limbs fought at first—muscles infused with energy so potent he thought he might explode. Spike shook his head, forcing his arms to stroke their way to the shoreline. Images in the distance were still fuzzy and his red-drenched eyes weren't helping any, no matter how good it felt.

Bathed in blood. Every vampire's fantasy was suddenly his reality.

The river's flow threatened to tug him in again; Spike struggled his way to dry land, drenched head-to-toe, caked with red and uncaring. Streams of crimson rolled down his arms, dripped off his lips, seeped from his hair, and the feeling was so great he could barely keep himself from diving back in. As it was, his stomach had not yet filled to capacity, thus he'd barely made it three feet onto solid ground before turning back swiftly for more.

Spike collapsed at the shoreline, diving face-first into the waves of red that splashed against his knees. God, it tasted so good. _So good._ He could feast forever and never tire. Flavor exploded in his mouth. He'd forgotten this—forgotten how rich it was, how warm it was, how it fired his cells and left his nerves alive. He'd forgotten what it was like to have his stomach ache—to feel too full after a good meal. Therefore, when his abdomen began to cramp, he didn't know how to interpret it. The only pain he knew as a constant anymore was hunger, so he kept feeding it. Kept eating. He could eat forever.

"God," he groaned, pressing a blood-drenched hand to his belly even as his mouth kept devouring. "Oh God…"

It became too much too soon. Spike's eyes went wide as a dull alarm in the back of his mind began blaring, his feet sloshing through the red mud at the riverbank in a hurried trek away from temptation. It took a second longer for the sensation to register, and by the time it did, he'd vomited all over himself.

"Christ," he murmured, wincing and fingering his t-shirt. "That's perfect."

With his eyes clearing at long last, Spike turned to view the distance he'd fallen. It was minimal at best, but might as well have been forever. The opening to the cavern stood at the other end of the blood river's bank, a rocky mountain that stretched for miles in the opposite direction, a small opening in its middle. It didn't encompass the entire river, rather stood as an odd pseudo-natural development where Spike had tumbled into the dimension. Perhaps it was there only because he'd made it through the trials—he didn't know. All he knew was, when the time came, that was the way out.

It would be a hard mountain to miss.

Spike sighed, pivoting to view the sickly yellow sky. His stomach rumbled again, but not enough to turn his attention back to the river. The river, he gathered, wasn't going anywhere.

The river was a part of Buffy's Hell.

_Buffy's Hell…_

Spike turned his eyes upward again, gaze directed at the horizon, to the faint yellow sky with its ominous clouds, and the still-blurry shapes in the distance. It was unlike anything he'd imagined—so far removed from the renderings of the endless nightmare Willow had suggested so long ago. A place where Buffy's fears lived and tortured her, without mercy or pity. No, the shapes weren't monsters…

They were buildings.

Frowning, Spike turned to glance wistfully at the river. There would be blood here. Buffy's Hell…human blood. Her savior complex notwithstanding, blood was what tied her to the earth. Blood of the people for whom she fought, and the lost blood of those she couldn't save. Perhaps he was oversimplifying it—perhaps it wasn't that complicated. But he understood the blood. A river around her prison would keep her locked inside herself.

Perhaps it was the blood that helped piece his mind together. Blood working its way through his body and repairing three centuries' worth of damage He remembered suddenly waking after the trial by holy water, refreshed and renewed, made whole again despite what he'd suffered. His skin hadn't melted and his muscles hadn't fried. The third trial, despite how it had rendered him, had left him physically unchanged. The only thing that had been denied was blood, and he had that now.

He had blood and intelligibility. The shapes in the distance were buildings, and a river of Buffy's people—those for whom she'd jumped—flowed behind him.

It was unlike anything he'd ever dreamt. And Buffy was there. Somewhere in the landscape ahead was where she lived.

Where she'd lived for a thousand years.

"Buffy," Spike murmured, stumbling over his feet. "Buffy!"

The scene didn't change, didn't waver, the closer he grew. The more steps he put between himself and the river, the more twisted the new reality became, the more hardened and bewildering. He remembered sitting in the Summers' living room or at the dining room table, talking with the others—the others whose faces he suddenly recognized with outstanding precision. As though truly nothing more than three days had passed since he'd dodged a goodbye hug from Willow and told Giles his prized duster belonged to Dawn should Spike not make it home. Things that the distance of time should have made lost forever came tumbling back.

Things like what to expect in Buffy's Hell. Her worst fears—the sort of things she would imagine Hell to be. The sort of world she would create.

A city—a broken skyline encircled by a river of blood. The sky was yellow, sickly, and there were buildings; buildings without sound or life…an entire city with no life. The closer he drew, the more certain Spike became. He remembered this scene; he'd walked the abandoned streets of Paris after the Germans pelted the city with bombs. It hadn't looked like this, but it had damn sure felt the same. Smoke and soot pillaring upward…he and Dru had camped out in an empty hospital, snacking on the dead and dying and waiting for a clear chance to leave before Armageddon came crashing down.

There was no soot or smoke in _this_ place. No dying to feast upon. No people of any kind.

There was no life whatsoever.

It felt wrong to taint the air with sound, but the silence was offensive. And after three hundred years, he couldn't keep quiet.

"Buffy!"

Spike stilled and listened. The call rolled down the empty streets, but didn't elicit a response. There was nothing. Nothing at all.

A world full of hollow places.

And still, he couldn't stop trying. He wouldn't.

She was here somewhere—she bloody well had to be. And he would find her.

*~*~*

He never saw them. He heard them…heard faint, wordless whispers. They trailed him wherever he went, followed him around every turn. Whispers without form—he knew there was no voice behind them. No shadows to answer, no people to claim words that were never spoken. Just as the buildings lining the streets bore no distinction. They were nondescript structures with doors and windows, but nothing to separate one from the other. Voices without owners, buildings without reason. A vast space without civilization.

Buffy's worst fears…

God, he was such an idiot. They'd all been idiots. The lot of them—sitting around the table and chatting up fears like they were a dime a dozen, like Buffy could be nailed to one certainty versus another. Her greatest fear would be the one to solidify Hell, and he, more than anyone, should have seen it. The greatest fear. A fear they shared, though not to the same extremes.

Buffy had been alone for a thousand years. She'd lived here, in this abandoned city without street signs or identifiable buildings, in a place where whispers followed her steps without providing a face. There were no phantoms, no ghosts, no torture to her body. This was torture on a different level.

Larry wouldn't send his goons to visit. Silence was the greater foe.

Silence. Abandonment. How long had Buffy waited for rescue, knowing her friends were trying their damndest to find her? She had to know they were looking. She had to know they wouldn't give up. It was what they did—Buffy and her chums, like the do-gooders they were. They didn't give up, and they hadn't given up. They had labored to find a way into her Hell, and they'd sent the one person who could survive the trials to retrieve her.

They just hadn't realized how long her days were. How waiting even seconds could cost her everything.

Spike braced his mouth with his hands and shouted her name. His cries fell to the whispers and died down an alleyway. There was no response.

She was here. She was somewhere in this place—in the place she had lived.

"Good God," Spike murmured, shaking his head. His eyes dropped to his blood-soaked t-shirt. He couldn't approach Buffy like this. The first sight she had of another person—vampire or not—couldn't be a snapshot out of a Wes Craven flick. With a sigh, he aimed his feet to the left, knowing it was a bloody long shot but figured there was no harm in seeing if there was a facility in which to clean up.

"No showers in Hell," he mused quietly, pushing his way through the door of a building he picked at random. The inside didn't reveal any surprises. The floor was scattered with an assortment of boxes and trash, a few pieces of furniture, but nothing he wouldn't have expected. It gave the feel that, at any time, someone else could come wandering across the threshold to resume picking up a mess, or packing belongings into crates.

It provided the allusion that perhaps one wasn't alone.

"Don't suppose there's anyone in here?" Spike asked, crooking his head around a corner. Silence answered him. The odds of finding Buffy so quickly were against him, especially in a place like this.

He sighed and tugged his t-shirt over his head, moving toward a staircase plotted in the back next to a rust-stained kitchen. A bloody kitchen. And yet, the place didn't look like a home. It didn't look like anything—a warehouse, perhaps, if he had to apply a label. But there was a kitchen, which provided the hope that there might be a shower.

These things would make the world seem a bit more normal while simultaneously enforcing a devastating sense of isolation. In the early days, it would be enough, undoubtedly, to drive anyone mad.

A shiver raced down his spine. He paused at the head of the stairs, nostrils flaring for any lingering scent, and while a woman's fragrance was present, it was faint enough to suggest years had passed since Buffy had stepped inside this place.

"All right, Spike," he murmured, turning his hands to his belt buckle. "Let's make this quick."

He found a bedroom three doors down, complete with a bed, a dresser, and a doorway leading to a bathroom. The comforter was twisted and nondescript articles of clothing littered the floor, along with a few stuffed animals with missing eyes or white cotton seeping from a rip in the seam.

It was haunting in how normal it was—how normal it could be.

How he was still very much a traveler in a strange land.

The bathroom was in much the same state. A few scattered staples but nothing more. Spike kicked off his shoes, stripping away the last shred of fabric. Red caked his hands and face, soaked his hair, and…

He paused and frowned, his head shooting up, meeting the eyes of his mirror's reflection.

His mirror's reflection.

"Bloody hell," Spike murmured. "That's not natural."

No, it wasn't. His memory might be a little fuzzy when it came to fine details, but he was bloody certain he hadn't seen himself in anything but photographs and video since running into Dru so long ago. But here he was, standing in Hell, in a loo in Hell, and he had a reflection.

He looked…different. And the same. The last time Spike had seen himself, he'd stuffed a twenty in Dawn's hand and instructed her to take a few candid shots of his head so he could see where his bleach was fading. Now he was…well, he didn't know. The few times over the last three hundred years that he'd had the strength to hazard a glance at his body, he'd seen a twist of black, rotting muscles around bone so fragile it would likely break under a hard stare. He wasn't that man anymore, but the fatigue and stress of the last trial had left an impression in his skin. He was thinner than he ever remembered being—never before had he been able to trace his ribs with his fingers, and it wasn't a look he liked. Likewise, his hair had lost its color, dipped with red, flaked with chips of platinum, but his chestnut locks were back. He'd buried his hair under bleach for so long; he'd forgotten what he looked like without it.

It wasn't bad…it wasn't anything, really, aside from different.

And he wasn't sure if different would benefit him.

Spike sighed and shook his head, turning to the shower. There would be plenty of time to worry over cosmetics later. Right now, he had to focus on scrubbing his skin clean so he didn't scare Buffy out of hers.

Though there was no bloody chance the water would run. Hell didn't strike him as a place that featured indoor plumbing.

But somehow, it did. And Spike wouldn't question it.

Buffy's Hell was a different breed. She'd made it as normal as she could while maintaining its landscape to that of a nightmare.

A place where no one else lived, but the world existed.

*~*~*

Spike had forgotten what cleanliness felt like, much like he'd forgotten how a different set of clothes could make a world of difference. The piles of clothing scattered across the bedroom floor provided a nice selection; after exchanging his blood-saturated jeans and tee for a different pair of jeans and a green long-sleeved cotton shirt, he again took to the ghostly streets under the angry yellow sky, darkening with what he could only assume was dusk. There was no sun, therefore no fear of death by its light, though the rules governing Hell were at odds with those with which he was so accustomed. He could see himself in mirrors here. Perhaps the sun wouldn't kill him. Perhaps nothing would.

Whispers nipped at his heels. Whispers followed him wherever he went.

He couldn't let them get to him. He had to focus on what was important.

He had to focus on Buffy.

"Buffy!"

The cry reverberated emptily along the outer walls of a dozen vacant buildings, over the barren street and drowned out the whispers that trailed him if only for a few seconds. And nothing. Nothing at all.

Would Buffy be able to distinguish his voice from the whispers? Did she even remember what words sounded like?

He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Buffy!" he screamed again, again receiving no answer.

Whispers at every turn. Whispers…whispers…

Then a different scent hit the air. A manifestation of grime and sweat, and other things he didn't wish to consider. Whatever it was, it was alive, and it was near.

Incredibly near.

Spike drew in a deep breath and took off. "Buffy!" he yelled. "Buffy, it's Spike. It's Spike. I'm here to…I'm jus' here. Buffy?"

This time there was a response; a deep, guttural response. Not human. Alive, but not human. Not Buffy.

Not Buffy, but something.

_Something. _

"Hey!" Spike screamed, turning another corner. There was no way he'd get an answer but he couldn't help himself. It was the first living entity he'd smelled or heard in eons and it, whatever it was, was slipping away. "Hey!"

And then there were a thousand things; the constant whispers, growls rumbling from whatever creature lingered ahead, and now footsteps from behind.

Footsteps or hoof steps…he couldn't tell the difference. Spike whirled around; if he didn't know better, he would have sworn his heart thumped against his chest. And yet there was nothing there. Footsteps with no one behind them. He heard them clearly, heard rustling through the debris and against the pavement, but no face to match.

He couldn't just be hearing things.

Only of course he could.

"Buffy?"

Nothing. And then the growl reemerged, and he was running again. Running after a creature he couldn't see while dodging footsteps from feet with no owner.

He screamed without realizing it, her name leaping from his lips. A prayer. A mantra. Something he remembered when he didn't remember anything at all. He was so close—he was so close, but he couldn't find her. He raced through the empty streets of a city that had no civilians, following the sound and scents of a creature that might not exist, and Buffy was nowhere to be found.

This was her Hell and he couldn't find her.

"Buffy! It's Spike. Spike, remember me? Come out here so you can kick my ass for somethin'…I don't know, jus'…it's Spike!"

Nothing.

"Buffy!"

Nothing. Footsteps, growls, and whispers. And he realized something he couldn't have known before.

He was being hunted.

Spike whirled around again, trying to pick up a scent. The heavy, lingering odor of whatever he was chasing tickled his nostrils, but nothing else. And then footsteps…more footsteps—quick and methodical, shadows dancing behind shadows before he could catch a glance. Someone was watching him.

Someone. Some_thing. _

He didn't know.

"Hello?" Spike ventured. "Buffy?"

Something rustled behind him. He pivoted swiftly on his heels, but the scene hadn't changed.

Nothing had changed.

And then the air ripped apart—a high whistle of something being hurled at superhuman speed. It pierced his shoulder before he could turn again, throwing him hard to the ground. Pain split his insides apart but he barely felt a thing. He couldn't think about pain when he knew who was behind him. The only person who could launch a weapon like that and hit its target.

It happened. When he turned over and looked up, his eyes clashed with hers.

And the world fell away.

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N**: On the off-chance that I don't get a chance to write more before Thanksgiving, I decided to go ahead and post this. It's not as cliffhanger-y as the last few chapters have been.

Thanks so much for the nominations—this story has been nominated at **Fang Fetish Awards**, **Rogue Poet Awards**, **Spuffy Awards**, and **The SunnyD Awards** (where you can vote now... *nudge nudge*). That just blows my mind—I can't thank you guys enough. Thank you!

If I don't get another chance to update this week, have a great holiday (for those celebrating), and a great week for everyone else.

**Chapter Fourteen**

She was beautiful. She was _so_ beautiful. An angel in hell.

He'd forgotten so many things—things he swore he would never forget. Things he had thought impossible to forget. The way her hazel eyes, at times, burned green. The way her hair curled at the ends where it hung over her shoulders. The way she could peel away layers with a simple stare. She was beautiful—so beautiful. Her beauty struck him hard, numbed the pain in his shoulder and stirred him to tears.

There was nothing to do but stare for long, endless seconds. Captured in a moment three hundred years in the making. He'd promised himself this—he'd promised he'd make it here, make it far enough to experience the awesome power of _this._ It took forever to jerk his mind from a place of awe and wonder back to reality. She was real. The girl he'd fought to see again, suffered to touch again, the girl he'd seen only in his mind…she was real.

_She was real. _

A sob strangled his throat. Spike stumbled to his feet, his heart twisting when her eyes went wide with fear—when she jerked backward to regain the step between them. Her chest crashed with heavy breaths, her eyes like saucers, large and full of wonder. He tasted her fear and confusion, felt how hard her heart pounded and how quickly her blood raced. She was afraid. Buffy, the girl with a spine made of steel, was afraid.

And she didn't know him.

Before he could even think of stopping himself, he'd reached for her, her name a desperate cry on his lips. "Buffy!"

A harsh gasp gripped her lungs. She shook her head hard, feet trailing backward.

"No," he protested, hand closing around the spear in his shoulder and jerking it free with a hiss. "No. Buffy. It's me. It's Spike. _Spike._ Remember Spike?"

She gave no indication she understood. There was nothing in her of the girl who had jumped. This girl was hollow where Buffy was full of life, skittish where Buffy was steadfast, and timid where Buffy was lionhearted. An eternity alone could unmake the bravest of warriors…undo the strongest of men. And there was no one stronger than Buffy. No one stronger, and no one more human.

She'd been alone so long.

"God," Spike gasped, taking slow, methodical steps forward, his hands up. "Buffy…it's me. Fuck, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry…I should've been here sooner. I should've been here. I should've…"

Buffy shook her head again, her eyes welling with tears.

"Don't run," he pleaded softly. "Please don't run."

Asking made little difference. Without a sound, she whirled around and took off, hard and fast, in the other direction.

And Spike was hot on her heels.

*~*~*

He'd known there would be consequences, even if he hadn't wanted to consider them. This stark reality was one, where he raced across the empty streets and through the winding alleyways, desperate to keep up with the colorful flash ahead of him. Seeing her again was the best and worst of all worlds. He'd known this was a possibility, feared its reality and hoped she would have the strength to fight the monstrosity of her own hell. But how could she, after waiting a thousand years for rescue that hadn't come? How could he or anyone expect her to remember them when, in her world, she'd been alone and waiting longer than he or anyone could imagine?

She hadn't had phantoms or captured memories with whom to speak. Chances were she hadn't even known she was in any form of Hell. She might have pieced it together over time, but there was no way she would have understood it. After sacrificing everything—after martyring herself so her sister could live—the world had repaid her by sealing her in a world where she could not die, in a world of despair and isolation. In a world where she was utterly alone.

He should have seen this. He should have predicted she wouldn't recognize him at all.

"Buffy!" Spike screamed, commanding his legs to pump faster. "'m not gonna hurt you! Stop!"

If anything, the blur ahead became more distant, twisting around the corner and vanishing from sight.

_Fuck. _

Spike heaved a sigh, racing harder, faster, pushing beyond his body's capabilities, his eyes focused and his heart trying desperately to ignore how quickly it could break. She hadn't known him. A part of him had known she wouldn't—he remembered all too well how his mind had begun to slip in the cave, and he'd known where he was and why he was there. He'd known this was a path he'd chosen deliberately, precisely for this cause. He'd hung in solitude for three centuries, allowing his body to waste away, to fade to nothing, all to see her face again. He'd done that, and he'd all but lost himself in the process.

Buffy hadn't been given a manual before she jumped. She hadn't known what waited at the other end of Glory's tower. She couldn't have imagined how giving her blood would damn her for eternity. There was no reason for her to remember him, especially after waiting so long for a savior.

How was she to tell him apart from the whispers that tickled the air? How was she to tell him apart from the growls of the beast he'd been tracking before she'd launched a spear through his shoulder? How was she to tell him apart from _anything?_

She couldn't—and that was why she ran. Of the _nothing_ in this world, he was an unknown element, and the most primitive instincts instructed fear of the unknown.

"Buffy!" Spike shouted again, nearly falling over as he sharply turned the corner around which she'd disappeared. "Buffy!"

The blur of motion returned. Running, hard and fast, its movements erratic. She was doing her best to lose him; he could feel her panic. Feel her fear. He felt everything, even at the distance that separated them. He felt it because he'd experienced it once upon a time—he'd felt pure panic. In the first minutes after awaking in his coffin, there had been nothing but terror—nothing but cold, dark, gripping fear.

Buffy had been living for centuries in a large coffin, and life, even in the form of a vampire, was terrifying.

"Buffy!"

She darted down an alleyway, and he was just yards behind her. She couldn't run forever.

Slayer or not, eternal or not, she couldn't run forever.

Not like a vampire.

To think he'd spent years trying to get her to fear him. The very embodiment of _be careful what you wish for_—right here in all its demonstrative glory.

Buffy feared him, and he couldn't stand it.

The alley she'd led him down proved to be a dead-end, and even if his spirits leapt at having caught up with her, the state in which he found her in tore his heart to shreds. She was clawing at the brick wall at the end of the line, body jumping as fingers latched, searching desperately for a crook to leverage her weight, feet scuffling along the sides before gravity pulled her down again. She was so far from the woman he remembered, and it was devastating. He knew Buffy, the real Buffy, was somewhere buried in the shell of a girl who had been left behind.

This was his fault. He could have been here sooner—perhaps not soon enough to matter, but a hundred years was still a hundred years. If he'd gone immediately after learning how to storm the gates of Hell… If he'd taken off without waiting for Willow and Giles and the whole merry lot of them. If he'd gone…

If a thousand different things.

Though even as he broke, somewhere within himself, Spike knew better. There had been no other option. If he'd acted rashly, everything might have been lost. Without waiting he wouldn't have heard the story of Brychantus. He wouldn't have had the Rule of Three, and likely would have failed long ago.

But perhaps, _perhaps,_ he wouldn't have failed. Perhaps. And perhaps he would have been here to keep Buffy from losing herself.

Spike swallowed hard, his eyes misting again. He had to keep a level head. If he lost it, he would only frighten her more, and that was something he couldn't afford to do.

"Buffy," he said hoarsely, hands coming up again. She froze the second he spoke, every inch of her small body wrought with tension. "Buffy…it's all right. It's all right."

Hard, shattering gasps rocked through her chest. She turned around swiftly, eyes clashing again with his before exploring the area behind him. She was contemplating another run, he knew, but he wouldn't let her get far. He wouldn't let her run again.

Not when he'd come so far to find her.

"It's Spike," he said again, patting his own chest to establish familiarity with the name. "Spike. I'm a…friend." The word sounded wrong on his lips, but he had no other way of describing himself. "I'm your friend. I've come to take you home."

Whether or not she heard a word was up in the air. Her eyes were still examining possible escape routes.

"Giles sent me," Spike continued, hoping a name closer to her heart might stir some of the woman he knew to the surface. It didn't. She favored him with a quick glance, but only to ensure he hadn't come any closer. "Giles an' Willow. You remember Willow, love?"

Still no response. Her attention had turned to her other surroundings. It was something else—watching her evaluate her options on such a rudimentary level, knowing her survival instincts were impeccable, deadly for anyone who dared intervene. He had to play this carefully, lest he find himself dust the second he reached his target.

There would be a bit of tragic irony. And neither of them would ever be free.

"How about Dawn?" Spike ventured, risking a step forward. Buffy's eyes went wide and she pressed herself against the wall with a cry. He flinched but didn't relent. "Or Xander? Joyce? Your mum, love, you remember her?"

No answer. Her heart thundered a mile a minute. She whimpered again when he took another step forward.

Spike swallowed again. He really didn't want to play this card, but as sick as it made him, he knew if any of Buffy was left in her, there was one more name to mention—one more name which would guarantee a reaction.

Didn't mean he had to like it.

"What," he ventured slowly, hating himself, "about Angel?"

A long pause. Buffy just looked at him—and for a minute, he thought he might have seen a flicker of recognition; a flicker which quickly proved to be nothing but another gasp. There was nothing. He might as well have mentioned Burt and Ernie.

His heart fell.

"You don't know me." It was an obvious statement, but speaking was important now. For both of them. "Buffy…"

She shook her head again, shivering hard and sliding against the wall until she was secured in a corner where the building met brick. Her eyes fastened on him, large and round, and wholly terrified.

_God._

"You don't know me," Spike said again, releasing a deep breath. "'m Spike. William, if you like that better…God knows I don't, but we can…it doesn't matter. We were…I won' lie to you, pet, I wasn't your favorite person…but I love you. I love you more than I can even…an' I'm here because you kept me alive. Because the world needs you, an' I… God, I should've been here sooner. I should've been here before this happened. Before…" He broke off, shaking his head. "Let's start from the beginning, yeah? You jumped. There was a tower, an' you jumped. You jumped to save the world an' you thought you were gonna die, but you didn't. You ended up here. This isn't home. This is Hell. You ended up in Hell. An'…" The words strangled his throat, but he had to keep talking—if not for her, then certainly for himself. "I don't know why you're here, but I'm with you now. You understand? I'm not going anywhere without you. Took me centuries to see you…to be here…an' I'm not leaving. Not without you, sweetheart."

While the fear hadn't abandoned her eyes, there was a certain calm that couldn't be denied. Tension rolled off her shoulders, and while she retained a healthy amount, she became relaxed enough to encourage him to keep talking.

"The Tower," Spike continued, taking another step forward. "You stopped the end of the world, love. 'Course, no small feat for you, is it? Bloody family event, the way things are up in ole Sunnyhell. An' I was there. I saw it. I should've stopped it—I could've stopped it. If I'd been quicker, a bit more clever…I could've gotten there in time. Could've stopped the Doc from makin' those cuts…from forcing you to a decision that…" He broke off again, tears assaulting his eyes. Strange how fresh that was…even after everything he'd been through. Even after the trials, after Larry's taunts, after an entourage of ethereal visitors, determined to break him—determined to steal his name from his memory—the thought of Buffy leaping to what she thought was her death left him feeling cold and devastated. Left him with the horrid memory of what it was like walking a world that lacked her warmth.

"It's all right," he said softly, reining in his reactions. It wouldn't bode well if he started sobbing in front of a girl who didn't remember him. "It's all right."

She bit her lip uncertainly. It was better than nothing.

Spike exhaled deeply and took another step forward, flinching when she flinched. "You don't remember me," he said softly. "Might be just as well. I was never your favorite bloke. You were made to kill me, an' I din't make that easy…'course, I don't know many who would, right?" Nervous laughter bubbled off his lips, then he frowned and shook his head. It shouldn't be this difficult. "But it got us here…strangely, what happened even then. It got me here."

There was no reaction. He sighed again and stepped forward, ignoring an inward pang when she flinched again and pressed herself further against the wall.

If he could just get close enough to touch her…

"Did I ever tell you what Dru told me all those years ago?" Spike continued, taking another step forward. "How I…how I realized I love you? It was after that truce. We had a truce, love, you remember? We teamed up, you an' I, we saved the world." A pause; he rolled his eyes at himself. "Right, of course, _you_ saved the world. I got what I wanted an' skipped out. But she knew, Dru did. She knew what I din't. She knew I…" He broke off and cleared his throat. "When we got to Brazil, she wasn't the same. She kept whisperin' that I was covered in you. How you were all around me. I didn't wanna listen, but she was right. God, she was so right. I came back to prove her wrong, see. I wanted to show her she was off her nutter—more than usual—an' offer you as proof."

Another step and another. Her scent tickled his nostrils…and despite the dirt on her face and the grime on her hands, despite the filth in her hair and the sweat on her skin, she smelled divine. She was here—¬_here_—he'd found her. She was alive. She was with him, after three hundred years of waiting, after three grueling trials, after a week's despair of walking and living in a world without her, she was here. She smelled wonderful simply by existing—by being with him. She might be sweaty and dirty, she might be years away from her last shower, but Christ, it didn't matter. He'd made it to her.

He'd made it.

"An' I'm too late," he whispered to himself, feet carrying him forward without permission from his brain. It seemed wrong not to hold her now. "It'll be all right, Buffy. No matter what, you hear me? I know…God, I can't imagine what it's been like here. But things are gonna change. Your memories…I'm not going anywhere. Not without you, love. You're my reason for everything. I know you don't like the idea—never bloody did—but it's what's gonna get us outta here. I'll do whatever it takes."

His feet kept moving forward, determined mind not registering her widened eyes or the protective ball into which she'd curled herself. It wasn't until she whimpered and threw her arms over her head that he realized what he was doing and came to a quick halt. "Sorry, sorry," he said, his hands coming up, heart twisting. "I'm sorry, love. I din't mean to…I jus'…Buffy?"

She was shivering so hard he could barely stand it.

"Buffy…"

He wanted to wait, wanted to give her time, but the need to touch her was overpowering. Spike drew in another deep breath and edged forward one step. "I'm jus' gonna touch you," he told her. "Jus'…I've waited three hundred years to touch you."

He couldn't wait for permission. The words themselves wore his body with fatigue, and when she was so close, when she needed someone even if she didn't realize it, he couldn't keep himself from her. With renewed vigor, Spike drew in a sharp breath and quickly covered the space between them. Buffy whimpered but didn't attempt to flee again, just sat and waited.

Just waited. Passive. Buffy was never passive.

_God. _

Spike knelt before her, tired eyes soaking her in. "I won't hurt you," he said softly, reaching for her. "I'd never hurt you, sweetheart."

His fingers wove through her raven-colored hair, wincing when she gasped hard and ducked deeper into her arms. The first contact was enough to cripple any man. After so many years alone, yearning for this, yearning for her, he couldn't help himself. He didn't want to help himself. Not anymore.

Not when she was trembling so hard because she'd forgotten what it felt like to be touched.

To be loved.

An electric shock speared through his body the second his skin touched hers. It was warmth unlike anything he'd ever felt—fiery heat ripped through his veins, but he didn't fry. Didn't dust. In that second he kissed the sun and came back whole—a man touching the heavens in the face of Hell. For the first time, even briefly, he was at peace.

The shaking stopped and she looked at him, and the fear in her eyes wavered before fading entirely. Fading in favor of something he'd never before seen…not here. Not with Buffy. As though it took that moment—it took touching her, being touched, for the shaken girl to understand she wasn't alone. That he wasn't a monster constructed from her Hell…rather someone, something, that wouldn't hurt.

She looked at him with awe and wonder.

"Buffy," he whispered hoarsely.

And then Buffy gasped and burst into tears, barreling into his arms, wrapping herself around him. Her face pressed against his chest, her hands everywhere, her body broken and trembling. She clung to him and sobbed, and he held her. The world couldn't pry her away.

Buffy was in his arms. She didn't know him, she didn't know herself, yet in that moment she was his. Entirely his.

In that moment they belonged to each other.

**TBC**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** I hope everyone who celebrates Thanksgiving had a good holiday. It's getting to be that special time of year for me when my semester piles up and becomes hectic, so I think I'm going to have to commit to just a weekly update until I graduate (which is in two weeks, so I'm hoping afterward I can go back to the two or three chapters a week thing). I beg your patience.

However, I have to again thank my readers from the bottom of my heart for the amazing response I've received for this story. You guys are the best muse-fuel a girl could ask for. Thank you. :)

**Chapter Fifteen**

A thousand things went through his mind, but Spike retained none of them. He was only aware of the trembling girl in his arms; the way she shivered and clung to him, how her body wouldn't stop convulsing, even after her tears had dried and her sobs had subsided. His mind was blank—aware, thoroughly captivated, but blank. He was caught by the moment, and in so, made completely hers.

"It's all right," he whispered, even though he knew it wasn't. "I'm here. Spike's got you. I've got you, Buffy."

She jerked violently—enough to startle him, though he did not know at what. Reaction to her name, perhaps, though he'd said it several times now. At that moment, anything seemed possible.

"I'm sorry," Spike said again, feeling every syllable. "I should've been here."

Easy words to say. Easy sentiment to murmur. Yes, he should have been with her sooner. He should have jumped off the bloody tower and into her abyss, if only to catch her before she crashed. She might have hated him, resented being captured for all eternity with him at her side, but at least she wouldn't have been alone. Not after everything—not after all they'd been through together. At least, had he been at her side when she jumped, he would have saved her from solitude.

Buffy shook her head and pulled back, but only slightly. Her eyes danced across his face, questioning, before her hands began to wander…and every molecule in his body fell still. It had been so long since he'd been touched—so long. Not a hug or a handshake in three hundred fucking years, and now he was holding the woman he loved. Raw, angry emotion rolled through his chest and threatened to burst through his lips in relieved, thankful sobs of combined adulation and regret. He'd needed her to touch him, needed to feel her skin against his, and here she was. Centuries he'd waited, and Buffy's hands were on him. She explored with cautious curiosity, fingertips running along his chest, skimming his neck and inspiring trails of gooseflesh to follow in their wake.

"Oh God," he murmured, eyes falling shut.

She didn't stop. Her fingers explored his cheeks, rubbed along his lips, briefly brushed over his brows before rolling over his nose and tugging his ears. Then she tunneled her way through his hair, massaging his scalp with such tenderness he nearly came apart. Her hands migrated southward, sliding down his arms and following them to the place where they were linked behind her. She explored his clasped fingers before her curiosity led her touch back up his arms until detouring to explore his abdomen. His stomach released an untimely growl the second she placed her hand against it, and when she jumped in surprise, he couldn't keep from smiling at her. His eyes fell open lazily just as her attention darted back to his face.

"Bit peckish is all," Spike explained. "Ate a bit when I fell in, but tossed it up jus' as quick. Din't stay around for seconds—finding you was more important."

Her brow furrowed, her eyes falling again to his stomach. Then, with childlike curiosity, she placed her hand on his belly again and waited for it to growl; when it did not, she looked up, gaze almost accusatory. A laugh tumbled through his throat before he could help himself.

"Doesn't do it on command, love."

Buffy quirked her head, expression changing and her eyes falling again to his lips.

"Suppose you got nosh around here, don't you?" Spike mused, watching as her mouth fell open, mimicking the shape of the words he spoke. She didn't make a sound, just played shadow, and just as quickly the enchanting spell of her childlike innocence came crashing down.

She didn't remember a thing. Not a blessed thing.

"You forgot, didn't you?" he murmured. He'd known it the second he saw her, of course. He'd seen it, recognized it without knowing, and hoped against hope he was wrong. But he wasn't wrong—now, sitting here with Buffy in his lap, watching him the way she was, there was no hiding what he already knew.

"You forgot your name."

Buffy met his eyes again, somber, as though she understood the significance of what he said. But she didn't. She couldn't.

She'd forgotten everything. In losing her name, she'd lost herself.

"Buffy," he said. There was little chance it would work, but hell, a man had to try. "Buffy. Buffy Summers. Buffy Anne Summers. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Your name is Buffy."

She frowned quizzically, her eyes falling again to his lips. He utilized the opportunity to say her name slower, knowing it was a long-shot but wondering still if it would come back to her if he could get her to say it. "Bu-ff-ee," Spike sounded out. "Bu-ff-ee. Can you say that, sweetheart? Can you talk for me?"

Her eyes lingered on his mouth, her own resuming its game of mimicking the shapes it made.

But she didn't speak.

"Bu-ff-ee." No response. Spike's hands seized her shoulders. "Buffy, Buffy, Buffy."

There was nothing. Her eyes met his after a few minutes, almost apologetic. As though she could tell what he was trying to accomplish…and perhaps she could. There was a sad wisdom in her eyes, despite her candid behavior. The face of a woman who had tried everything in her power to remember…once upon a time.

A time far from now.

A long sigh rolled off Spike's shoulders. He glanced down, rubbing her arms. He had to speak—he had to keep his mind moving, keep words flowing, if only to counter the deathly silence that encompassed them. She'd lived in silence too long, and she wouldn't get it from him. "Don't think it works that way anyway, pet," he said. "Though I'm hardly an expert. Spend a few days hanging around an' I make like bloody Dante. Guess he didn't have it too bad. They did steal one of his lines for their welcome mat."

Her frown deepened.

"Nothing you have to worry yourself with," Spike assured her. "When we see it again, we'll be on our way out."

Buffy licked her lips and shuffled self-consciously. The movements were subtle at first but became increasingly agitated, as though she were becoming aware that she should try to make sounds to accompany his, and her frustration was about to manifest. He sighed and placed a finger across her lips—the last thing she needed was undue pressure, especially when he was growing more and more convinced the repetition of her name wasn't going to magically open the inner doors that forgetting it had closed. "It's all right," he said softly. "It'll come when it comes."

She shook his finger away, her mouth falling open, hoarse sounds scratching her throat. "Ahhhh…"

"Buffy—"

"Bu…" She inhaled, frowned, and concentrated. "Bo…boo…Boofay."

The world might as well have stopped then…strange when all his heart wanted to do was pound. Spike was caught on a cusp—body ready to explode and freeze at the same time. Somehow, he managed to pull his nerves to a halt, his grip on her clamping, imploring eyes searching her face. "What did you say?" he demanded. "Buffy?"

Her face fell into a frown again, her nose twitching.

"Buffy…"

Again it came. "Boofay."

An iron hand closed around his throat, his eyes watering. "That's it," he encouraged. "Your name. That's your name."

The frown refused to fade. She waited for a second as though expecting something. He couldn't blame her; he was expecting something, too.

Expecting anything. _Anything._

An anything that didn't come.

"Come on," he murmured, eyes turning heavenward. "She said her name, didn't she?"

There was no response. Of course there was no response. Nothing ever came that easily. Spike exhaled deeply, gaze finding hers again, heart breaking at the flecks of disappointment clouding her pretty green eyes. "Sweetheart, don't," he urged, sighing heavily. "You…there's no need for that. You jus'…it's more than the name. More than the bloody name."

More than the name. He'd known that—he _had_ to have known that. The name was nothing more than an identity stamp. It held power for what it represented, not what it was. Not the letters it used or the sound it made. Names were a verbal symbol of life, and that was what she had forgotten. Her name, yes, but more importantly everything it carried with it. Past, future, friends, family…her very identity.

Imprinted in Buffy's name was everything she was. It was devastating in its simplicity.

Forget oneself and lose the world. Lose everything. And even if she regained words, they would mean nothing unless she could regain the essence of herself she had lost when she forgot.

When she lost the foundation of who she was.

That was the only bloody thing that made a lick of sense to him. The days in the cave had nearly ripped away his sense of self. Years would pass without word from the phantoms carved from his past, with nothing but silence eating away at his tired mind. He'd try to call for her—for Buffy—but she wouldn't always come; during the last day, the last hundred years, she'd only come once. And hanging with nothing but time at his side, it was easy to lose oneself. God, he'd felt himself slipping away. Felt faces he'd once known melt into a sea of indifference, felt things he'd known about himself fade until he didn't know if he was remembering something or making up a memory. There toward the end—before the phantoms renewed their visits—the only thing keeping him from losing his name was the promise of what lay ahead. The promise of this. Of Buffy.

She'd pulled him out of the cave. If she hadn't been with him, he would have lost all semblance of who he was. He would have lost himself.

But he'd known to fight for it. He'd been told his name was important. He'd been warned of what might happen, cryptic words or not. He'd been warned.

Buffy never had a chance. Not a fucking chance.

It wasn't fair. Christ, how it wasn't fair.

And yet, here they were. Buffy had forgotten her name, and everything attached to it.

Spike turned his attention back to Buffy, his eyes softening, his lips finding her brow before he could help himself. "'m sorry, sweet," he whispered. "It'll be all right. We'll find a way, yeah? We'll get you back where you belong."

From the way she looked at him he almost believed she understood. His heart jerked and his hands tightened around her arms. God, he hoped he could make good on his words—though he'd fight the rest of his days to give them strength, no matter the cost.

All the fight he had left in him was hers for the taking.

*~*~*

He knew exactly where to go—where to look. The deep crimson mud of the river bank was scattered with fresh, heavy footprints. His footprints. He'd stumbled to freedom here—here, he'd gorged himself on blood until his stomach rebelled. Here he'd stood and observed the cave from which he'd fallen, the one that had held him prisoner for centuries, the one that would lead them home. It had been here. A visual aberration within a nightmarish landscape—a mountain without hills or valleys, a mountain that simply _was._ It had stood here. Here, where Spike's footprints led away from the blood river, where the mud was disturbed against the bank where he'd collapsed and drank. It had been here. He knew it. He'd made sure of it before turning to the abandoned streets in search of Buffy.

In search of the trembling girl at his side.

She hadn't wanted to come here. The second it became apparent he was leaving the perimeters of the city, she'd tensed and shaken her head, but had followed him anyway, her grip on his hand like steel.

There were some actions that spoke volumes. The briefest look, the gentlest touch—the way one tensed, however slight or dramatic. Spike knew how to read people; he'd excelled at it once upon a time, and though his skills were a little rusty, his eye for Buffy hadn't suffered a lick for their time apart. And even if it unnerved him, the sense of being so needed by someone who could barely stand to touch him in the world he knew, he wasn't going to deny her…or himself. He needed this, her, as much as she did. She'd been without hope or reason for so long, and while he might not have eradicated her nightmares, he'd at least provided her with companionship, and Buffy wasn't going to let him out of her sight.

Which was just fine by him.

Only now he was standing at the place where there should be an exit. A way out.

There was nothing. _Nothing._ A vast, empty desert that stretched until the horizon clashed with the darkening yellow sky. A desert that stretched forever.

"No," Spike snarled. "This isn't…it was fucking here. It was _here." _His head whipped to Buffy's, eyes blazing. "It was here. Where I fell. I saw it. I bloody well saw it. It was _here." _

Buffy's eyes were as wide as saucers, saturated in confused trepidation. She watched him like he was a bomb ready to ignite.

"It was here," he insisted. "Here…_goddammit." _

She shook her head, though only in reflex. There was nothing else to do.

"I made sure…I…" Spike tore his eyes away, turning his face to the sky. "You twisted, gutless sod! Come down here an' face me! _Face me, you worthless bastard! _Your plan is to bloody well torture us from a distance, as long as you don't get your claws dirty? You can't keep us here forever. _You hear me? You can't keep us here forever!" _

Wind rippled across the red river. The whispers from the city behind them grew in volume. The creature's growl rumbled through the still air. And Larry didn't respond.

There was nothing. _Nothing._

They were stranded.

Spike stared hard at the blood, shivers sprouting across his skin. Buffy was beside him. Buffy was watching him, and he didn't know what to tell her. If there was anything to tell her. The exit on which he'd been banking, the path he'd traveled…everything. It was gone. And for the first time, the first true time, he knew what he could not have understood before. Not even in the long, endless years he'd spent in the cavern. Not in the holy water that had scalded his flesh nor the twisted phantoms that had tried to tear his mind apart. He understood now—there was no end. No end. Getting to Buffy hadn't been his destination; his destination had been getting her home. Getting her back to the place where she truly belonged.

There was no escape from Hell. There was only surviving it.

He'd earned his place here, sure as she'd earned hers. She'd jumped, and he'd followed her.

He'd followed.

A tentative hand touched his shoulder. Spike whirled to face her before he could allow his fears to surface. Before his mind could seize logic and reason; he knew the price didn't matter. It didn't matter where he was so long as he was with her. The battle had been worth it. Getting to Buffy was worth the whole bloody world.

Even if they were trapped here forever.

Even if he couldn't keep the promise he'd made to the others before he left, and in his head to Buffy a thousand times.

Hell with Buffy he could survive; life on earth without her was a different story. He'd already traveled far enough without her at his side.

A long, dark shudder seized his body. No matter what, from this point forward, they were together.

Together.

"It'll be all right," he whispered, though he didn't know to whom he spoke. "It'll be all right."

Buffy pressed herself into his side and wrapped her arms around his middle; every inch of his body relaxed.

_This was worth anything. _

"It'll be all right."

And he meant it.

*~*~*

There were certain things time couldn't eradicate, no matter how it tried. The instincts of a slayer were one of them. The second the growl touched the air, she hit the ground running, quickly scavenging something pointy out of a pile of debris and motioning for him to follow. And follow he had—it was the first sign of anything beyond utter devastation to hit his eyes, and once she found her target, it wasn't difficult to see why.

"Figure they had to keep you fed somehow, din't they?" Spike muttered, flashing Buffy a glance before turning his eyes back to the large warthog he'd wrestled to the ground. By the time he and Buffy had returned to the city's empty streets, he'd consigned himself to the thought that the sounds he heard had no source—a theory proved wrong when Buffy's eyes went wide the second the rumble shook the ground.

The growl from the creature he'd followed earlier. It was real. It, aside from Buffy, was the only real thing this place had to offer.

"Yeah," he muttered, jabbing a piece of broken glass into the pig's side. His fangs itched to play but he figured that to be a step down the road—once Buffy was accustomed to seeing him, accustomed to touching him and being touched. Introducing his bumpies this early, when she had no context in which to place him, might well send her running again, and that he could not allow. "Makes sense. Caught a live slayer who needs food, an' this is what they give you." Spike sighed and shook his head, kicking the dying creature once for good measure. "Bloody Pumbaa."

Buffy frowned.

"Don' worry about that, pet," he assured her, hoisting the pig into his arms. "Got yourself some nosh. Gimme an' open fire an' it'll roast proper, though don't fret if I poke it from a distance. It'd be right…me getting here jus' to be done in by a bloody spark. Where we goin'?"

She turned promptly as though she understood, and though his hopes spiked, there was little chance her mind had broken down the mechanics of language and reason within the last hour. As it was, the now-dark sky was indicator enough. Night was when she retreated, at least in this world. In the world above, night was when she thrived.

In the world above…

A world he might never see again.

Spike sucked in his cheeks, eyes catching Buffy's when she glanced over her shoulder to ensure he was still following. The way they sparkled…the way she smiled…she was happy. Well, perhaps not happy, but she wasn't miserable. She wasn't the shattered girl who, just a little while ago, had clawed at the dead-end wall of an alley to escape what she thought was another nightmare. This was a girl inspired.

A girl for whom he'd live or die. A girl he'd braved Hell to find.

If she was with him, it wasn't Hell. It was paradise.

"We about there, dove?" Spike asked, bouncing the warthog in his arms. "Not back to full strength yet. Bloody embarrassing to be done in by Babe."

Buffy just grinned at him again and his heart melted.

_Chump. _

Spike glanced down and smiled to himself. It was fleeting, but for the first time in a long while, he felt normal. Felt like he could be anywhere—in Sunnyhell, trailing helplessly after the Slayer and hoping she'd drop some crumbs along the way. Felt something like himself sneak its way home. And though the sensation wasn't permanent, it was kind enough to follow him until Buffy signaled they had arrived.

The building wasn't much to look at, nor distinguishable at all from any of the others they'd passed. It appeared very much to be an old warehouse, worn by time and neglect. Her scent was heavy here. Thick. For a brief second, it reminded him of standing below her window, smoking fags and hoping to catch a glimpse of bare breast through the glass. Scent triggered memory, and those featuring her, no matter how painful, were the ones he treasured the most.

"Home sweet home, I take it," Spike said, following her blindly through the entry way. "I don't know, pet, I think you could have—"

His voice cut the second his eyes hit the walls. What little was left of day had just dipped below the horizon, therefore there wasn't much light—not much but enough; though his eyesight had weakened from centuries of hunger, his vision operated far beyond what any human could reach. And he saw everything. Everything.

He saw everything—every aspect of the space belonging to her. Every inch of clutter, every scattered warthog bone, every strain of use against broken furniture. He saw everything. The bed she'd compiled from discarded clothing and stuffing from cushions, the place where she undoubtedly roasted her food before eating, the bucket she kept for water…but he didn't look. He couldn't.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the walls.

"Oh God," he whispered, staring.

The pig hit the ground. Buffy turned and frowned at him, confused, but he couldn't look at her.

_Couldn't tear his eyes away._

"Oh God."

They were horrible. They were everywhere. And they were hers.

"Oh my God."

**TBC**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

He remembered studying Greek as a boy. Memorizing the structure of an alphabet he didn't understand, letters that didn't resemble anything to which he was accustomed. Letters that, while uniformed, were otherwise indecipherable. Spike had never been good at Greek beyond a word here or there, and recognizing it when he saw it. Other languages had come more naturally. He'd learned Latin and its derivatives, the Germanic dialects and a slew of demon tongues. Greek, however, remained unreadable.

There was no such structure to the carvings in the walls. No symbol had a duplicate, no pattern emerged from the scribbles—but he knew they were words. Words that meant something, or had meant something, words etched over and over. Words in a language no one knew. Words she'd written. Words she'd put there. Her scent, her blood—he couldn't breathe without being overwhelmed, couldn't take a step without feeling her. These walls were her opus, and he didn't know what she was trying to say.

The markings were hers and they were without logic.

Spike shuddered, taking a long step forward, his eyes fixed. "God," he said again, raising a trembling hand to the rugged ridges of one of the carvings. Dried, aged blood was splattered across the plaster. How long ago had she done this? How much time had she spent creating a work of chaos?

_Oh God. _

"Buffy…"

Buffy made a small sound and padded forward. She had evidently worked out that the name was hers.

It was the thing she'd lost and didn't know how to recover.

"What is this?" he asked, knowing he would receive no answer. "Why is this here?"

She licked her lips and shook her head. It was all she could do.

Spike sighed and turned his eyes back to the marks, a cold shiver sliding down his spine. "Well," he said softly before clearing his throat, blinking and tossing her a glance. "I…you hungry, pet? Gonna start you up a fire, yeah? One roast pig coming up."

If he didn't know better, he would swear she arched a brow at him the way she did so often when he wasn't telling her the full story. It was fleeting if there at all; the small, hopeful smile had returned by the time he turned to face her fully. And though it wasn't much, while it was most likely entirely in his imagination, it made his heart jump and his nerve-endings fire. He grinned without realizing it, ran a hand through his hair and fully turned his back on the wall. Little good it did. There was nowhere safe to look—nowhere to escape the writing. "Don't suppose you got a pack of matches, do you?" he asked, selecting a piece of jagged glass off the floor. He'd never done this before—gutted and cooked an animal. There had never been a need.

_Well, here's hopin' I don't make her sick. _

"A lighter'd work, too," he said, though more to himself. "Think I had one in my jeans, but it probably rusted. An' it's clear across town. Not exactly sure if I could find the buildin' I washed up in, anyway." His eyes rested on the charred stretch of floor where she'd undoubtedly built her own fires. "How do you manage it, pet? Mind showin' the new guy the ropes around here?"

Buffy stared at him a second longer before frowning and turning her attention to the dead warthog. She was still for a second, then her eyes brightened and she transformed into a whirl of motion, her quick hands seizing something off the ground, athletic legs carrying her rapidly into the back of the warehouse. It wasn't a long wait; when she returned, she had a small torch fashioned from a piece of plywood and discarded paper, her expression hopeful and her eyes vibrant. She looked at him expectedly, a smile lifting her face when he grinned and nodded at her.

"Now, there's a girl after my own heart," he said, quickly compiling a pile of paper and wood. "How'd you manage that?"

She blinked and indicated the room into which she'd disappeared.

"Must have a stove or what all back there," Spike mused. "Bloody handy."

With the fire taken care of, he returned his attention to the pig, tightening his grip on his makeshift knife. The legs would be the best, he supposed, though there was undoubtedly salvageable meat in the abdomen and elsewhere. The first cut into the animal's tough flesh sent a whiff of blood to his hungry taste-buds and the temptation to bite and drain the beast dry became damn near unbearable.

Was that how humans made their food? Didn't they bleed animals out? He didn't know.

"Fuck it," he muttered to himself, slicing open the pig's stomach and doing his best not to salivate when the blood's scent intensified. He licked his fingers before examining the creature's entrails. He supposed he couldn't just leave animal guts rotting on the ground, and he didn't reckon Hell cared a damn about sanitation issues. "Don't know where you put these, love," he drawled, wincing and lifting the pig's intestines. Buffy just stood and shrugged as if to say, _Your mess. You deal with it. _

Spike grinned and glanced down, his eyes fixing on a cardboard box shoved in a far, seemingly forgotten corner. That would do. "Be a love, will you?" he asked, gesturing best he could. "Enough to stuff these down, yeah?"

Buffy's eyes bounced between him and the corner for a few confused seconds before the request clicked. With a prompt nod, she hurried over to collect the box and scurried back just as quickly. And had he not paused to take a peek inside, he would have drenched the insides with entrails.

"Wait," he said, nodding at the stack of aged, yellow papers stuffed within the box. They didn't look to be anything remarkable, aside from the fact that there were many, all in her penmanship, and written in the same bizarre non-language as the carvings on the walls. While there was nothing to suggest the pages were worth keeping, the fact that they had once been important to her made them important to him. He wasn't about to throw them away. Not now.

Spike glanced up and met her questioning eyes. "You know what those are, pet?"

Her brow furrowed, her nose wrinkling.

"You wrote them," he urged unhelpfully. Then, almost sheepishly, he turned his head downward. "'Course you did. No one else here, right? But I'd know your writing anywhere. Stole enough of your notes an' what all back in the day. Back before you jumped. Learned your handwriting backwards an' forwards…even if it is bloody jibberish. You wrote it for a reason…can't reckon why, but you did, din't you? An' we'll save them."

A long stillness settled between them—Buffy's eyes darting from his face to the box and back again until she ostensibly concluded that removing the papers was what he expected. There were times, he noted, when she seemed to understand him, and up until this moment he'd hoped it meant she was remembering. But she wasn't—she wasn't remembering, merely reading his body language. It was too much to ask for so much progress so quickly.

Too much, and yet he wished for it anyway.

Buffy vigilantly lifted the scribbled, aged sheets, and frowned at them curiously. A few seconds passed before she looked up, eyes bouncing from the walls and the pages in her hand. Spike watched her carefully, waiting, hoping for a flicker of recognition. And though he truly hadn't expected anything, he couldn't prevent his insides from chilling when she betrayed none.

"It's all right," he muttered, at last dumping the entrails into the box. When he glanced up, her troubled eyes immediately fell away and in so doing took him with her. Spike sat up quickly. "Oh no, love, none of that. It's all right. Don't listen to me. I'm a bloody dolt."

She worried her lower lip between her teeth.

"Now," Spike said, leaning forward and wiping his hands on his jeans. He took the pages from her grasp and set them aside—better not to get them soiled here. There was no telling whether or not they were actually decipherable, but however the language read, it had been important enough to Buffy at one point to commit it to paper. There was all the time in the world to figure out what the words meant. "We'll worry about that later, yeah?" he continued softly. "Let's get you fed."

The business of cleaning the warthog wasn't as difficult as he'd anticipated. Buffy led him into the back of the warehouse where he discovered a small stove, and while it was broken and offered little aside from an open flame, that much was incredibly useful. Even more so was the sink he found by the back window. By looks alone, she hadn't touched it in years; it took several attempts to get water to run; when it did, Buffy watched with such awe it made his insides crumble.

He didn't think he wanted to know where she'd been getting her water.

"Let's cook the leg tonight," he said conversationally, eying the refrigerator pressed against the far wall. It didn't work. That much was evident from the scent of aged rot occupying the air around it. "Meat'll spoil, but something tells me there's not a shortage of pig here, is there?"

Buffy just smiled at him, her eyes fixed on the warthog.

"Hope you're hungry, pet," he murmured.

*~*~*

The past few centuries had been nothing but cold; he had forgotten how quickly an open flame could warm the bones. Upon retreating to the main area of Buffy's living space, Spike was greeted by an inferno fit for Hell, and though it became uncomfortable after a few minutes, he couldn't deny the welcoming kiss of warmth.

The pig's leg ended up resembling something he might have once seen on the telly, and judging by its smell and the way Buffy's eyes sparkled, he'd done it justice. He sliced off a healthy portion with his shard of glass and handed it to her, wishing for plates but making do with assorted surfaces lying among the debris.

A quick glance outside confirmed evening had settled over Hell. Hell had a day and night. Strange how things like that had never occurred to him, yet seemed right in this setting. A setting ripped from the pages of Buffy's imagination. As it was, the way the sky darkened and rolled into night was something he figured would always remember, even if they managed to make it back to Sunnydale some day. It was eerie in its similarities, yet different enough to make him painfully aware that home was far, far away.

Spike looked up and met Buffy's eyes, unable to hide his grin at her food-stuffed cheeks. _No. _No, he was wrong. Home was wherever she was.

Home was right here.

"You must be bloody sick of pigs, eh, love?" he mused, poking at the fire with the stick he'd managed to procure, which festered but didn't roar. It had started to die down an hour or so ago, and while he wasn't worried about starting a new one, he wasn't quite ready to relinquish the heat. "When we get back to Sunnyhell, the firs' thing I'll do is buy you a bloody funnel cake. Bet you can't remember how sweets taste, can you?"

Buffy paused, grinned, and resumed tearing away at her slab of meat.

"Or one of those big greasy burgers from the place you like. The onion thing from the Bronze…God, I could stuff myself silly on that. They have those spicy chicken wings, too. Bloody brilliant." Spike smiled wistfully. "All the things we'll taste when we get back. I'll take you wherever you like. We'll see the whole world."

She chewed, smiled, and swallowed. There was no doubt she was hanging on his every word, even if she hadn't the foggiest idea what he was saying. And for that very reason, it was important he keep talking. His mind kept bouncing back and forth from one extreme to the other; one minute he thought her reactions were random, the next he was certain there was method behind what she did or what face she made. Her movements and responses were intelligent enough he hoped, he bloody prayed, that she was remembering at least some of who she was, even in the smallest measure.

"Wanna hear how I got here?" he asked, settling back. His stomach rumbled but he ignored it. Blood could wait until morning. As it was, he'd stolen enough sips from the pig to placate him for the evening. It wasn't like not eating would kill him; if he could go three centuries without a drop, one night was a sodding cake walk. "It's not a pretty story, but we got time to kill, yeah?"

Buffy licked her lips, finishing off the last bite of warthog before leaning back and crossing her legs.

"Willow, the redhead, the witch…she found this story about a demon king, or something or other. Gave me three rules to use to navigate Hell. You know the Hellmouth? You fought to keep it closed so long…turns out if you're lookin' for sub-ground real estate, all you gotta do is go into the rabbit hole." Spike sighed and shook his head. "An' I did. She got me the rules an' I climbed down. Met with an enormous wanker by the name of Larry an' made a deal to come an' get you. There were these three trials, see, an' I had to pass each without askin' for rot. Or taking anything they offered me. Also couldn't make any promises or…" He met her eyes and swallowed hard. "Forget my name."

His breathing hitched and he held her gaze. She just smiled.

"Never told you, though, did they?" he whispered. "Couldn't tell you. Sacrifice everythin' you sacrifice, an' this is how they reward you. You don't belong here. Me? Yeah, I've earned it. I'm a vicious, bloody bastard an' Hell is where I'm headed…even if I make it out of here, I'll just be back one day, right? But you…this isn't the way it's supposed to be. This is the last place you're supposed to be. A place like…" He broke off with a hard shiver. "An' we'll get you out. I don't know how, but we will."

It was an easy thing to say; putting it into action was something entirely separate. Larry had seized the only viable way out, melting it into the endless horizon of Buffy's mindscape. There wasn't a hidden escape hatch. This was a place people entered without any thought of leaving. No one walked away, and as he'd been warned, the security around a living slayer would be insurmountable.

He couldn't give up, but there was little reason to hope, and as long as he had an eternity, nothing would stop him from searching for a way out.

"Larry told me getting here was nothing," Spike murmured soberly. "I didn't think it was possible. After starving for so long, I just…getting to you was all I thought about. Getting out…I don't know why I thought it'd be easy. Guess it was…as long as I got to you, the rest would be a cinch." He reached forward without thinking, fingers threading through her hair. "I meant what I said, though," he continued, thumb rubbing tender circles into her cheek. "Out there. I know I was angry, but…here? With you? There's nothing better than this. Nothing…"

His voice trailed off, frozen with a horrible thought. It hit him from nowhere—a shot in the dark, blasting through the quiet and shattering the fortress he'd starting building around Buffy and himself. Something he should have already known. Something…

_Oh my God. _

He couldn't be that stupid. He _couldn't_ be…

"Don't make any promises," he murmured. "Oh God."

It was one thing while hanging in the cave—turning his face from the red-rimmed glasses Larry waved under his nose, repeating his name over and over to keep from losing himself completely, but there had never been any need to give anyone a promise. He kept his thoughts to himself, kept quiet, kept his mind focused on the tunnel through which he had to travel. And while he'd subconsciously banned the word from his vocabulary, he'd said a handful of things since arriving that could be construed as promises. Things he'd said without thinking, vows he'd made without hesitation—he'd condemned them with thoughtlessness. His promises…_God…_

"Goddammit!" Spike roared, tearing his hands away and leaping to his feet. He immediately broke into a furious pace, the worn, ragged floor groaning under his heavy strides. "Three hundred years. _Three hundred fucking years! _I din't eat. Din't move. Din't ask for rot. Made bloody well sure I remembered my name. I made it—they told me they didn't think I would, but I _did. _I made it. An' the first thing I do when I get here…the _first bloody thing I do is forget the sodding rules!" _Another snarl ripped through his throat as his foot smashed into the box of warthog guts and sent it spiraling into a far corner. "I'm such a…_Goddammit!" _

The whimper that bubbled off Buffy's lips was the only thing in the world that could have broken through the thick, angry cloud of self-loathing. Spike slowed his pace but didn't break altogether, his head swinging southward, defeat crippling his shoulders. He couldn't look at her. Not now. Not with what he'd done. Not when he knew he was the final nail in the bloody coffin—he'd condemned them to eternity here. In this hollow, hopeless place. It wasn't supposed to be like this. _Not like this. _

Not when his mind wracked with doubt. Not when he couldn't think of anything but his shortcomings—his failures. How could he have come so far, sacrificed so much, only to let it go like this? Only to let it go _now? _

He'd allowed himself to believe it would be easy, and in doing so…

Spike shook his head hard, turning away to fix his eyes on the wall.

The wall on which Buffy had written, over and over again, in a place where she'd waited for centuries for rescue—a rescue which had only cemented her fate.

The air rustled as she climbed to her feet, and every inch of Spike's body tensed. She would touch him, need him, and he couldn't bear looking at her. He'd failed so miserably; he'd condemned her to an eternity of _this. _A thousand years down…but there would be no reprieve.

He'd made a promise and it had cost her everything.

Yet he couldn't turn away, and he wouldn't deny her. Thus, when her hand slipped over his shoulder, there was nothing but surrender. Spike's body broke entirely, whirling around and seizing her in a fierce, desperate hug. Her heart thundered against his chest, her pulse raced in his ears, and he could do nothing but hold her. Give her all of himself—give what little he had to offer in lieu of what he'd taken.

"I'm sorry," he gasped into her hair. Her arms tightened around him as though she understood, and even if it was cold comfort, he wouldn't deny her a thing. "I'm so sorry. I just…I couldn't keep it in. I needed you to know…an' now…"

She offered a soothing hum, and he nearly fell apart all over again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…forgive me, Buffy, I couldn't…I let it go."

There was no reply, but for this, none was needed. All he needed was her arms.

And even though he had no right to hold her, no force in this or any other world could tear him away.

*~*~*

He moved slowly through the warehouse, eyes wandering to the walls every few seconds…unable to stop himself.

The carvings were hurried and desperate. She must have been so terrified—of what he didn't know, and perhaps never would, but frenzied despair stretched through every mark. The picture his mind presented wasn't any more forgiving; tears scalding down her cheeks, a piece of jagged glass grinding into her bloodied hands. Over and over, writing symbols that looked like nonsense. Writing something important in a language no one knew. Writing for _someone. _It was here for a reason.

Spike shivered and glanced down, wishing for a pack of smokes. He hadn't had a good fag since the Hellmouth, and though the centuries had all but killed his need for nicotine, he could really use one now.

_I promised. _

It was so bloody unfair. She was dealt the punishment for his mistake.

"Be all my sins remember'd," he recited softly, a harsh chuckle rumbling through his lips. "No worries there."

When he turned, Buffy was climbing into the makeshift bed she'd built on the floor. Composed of clothing, stuffing from couches, and an assortment of other things, it gave Spike the odd sensation of being both homey and pitiful. She'd made this place hers, from the markings on the walls, to the camp stove on which she cooked her food, and the bed she'd pieced together…it wasn't much, but it was hers. This place, these writings, this area…it was hers. More hers than any other corner of her Hell, because this was where she came when she slept. Where he would stay if she wanted him. If, after she remembered, she would have him for what he'd done.

The sentence he'd given her.

_If she ever remembered. _

Spike cleared his throat and shook the thought away, taking a step forward. "Tired, love?" he asked, voice strained. A sense of unwarranted calm had washed over them when the aftershock of his outburst finally wore away, and while he wanted nothing more than to scream until his throat gave way, he refused to scare her anymore. The fury would come later—right now, she needed the quiet.

"We had a long day, didn't we?" he continued. "Started the day in a river. You tried to make me a bloody kabob. We hunted a pig, an'…" He broke off, jaw hardening. "Long day."

Buffy blinked at him, then pointed at the bed.

"You want me with you?" he asked.

She moved forward and took his hands in hers, guiding him back until her heels brushed the edge of the nest. Then, with a tender smile, she guided him to his knees.

"I don't deserve this," Spike murmured. "You don't know what I've done, sweetheart. I came here to get you out—"

Buffy shook her head and placed her finger across his lips, her eyes so soft and grateful he could barely stand it. And though he knew he shouldn't, though he knew he'd lost his rights—if they'd ever existed in the first place—he couldn't bring himself to move away. There was no sense in fighting tonight, or denying himself something he craved. He was exhausted, worn by the struggle and aching with the knowledge of what tomorrow would bring.

He hadn't slept in three hundred years. Just once, just for one night, he wanted to rest. He wanted the solace of her arms, and with the day behind him, he could no longer fight what he needed so much.

Just tonight.

_Please give me tonight. _

**TBC**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** I know it's been a little longer than I planned since updating, and for that my apologies. Between birthday, graduation, a trip to Vegas, Christmas (six of them this year, three with my family and three with my boyfriend's), my boyfriend moving in, and New Years, I've been fairly drained. I'm almost finished with Chapter Eighteen, though, so I figured there was no harm in updating with the chapter I've had in storage the past few weeks. Hopefully, you guys will forgive me.

This story, as well as others, have recently won awards at the **SunnyD Awards** and **The Rogue Poet Awards**. **The Writing on the Wall** won for Best Angst in Spike Pairings, Best Characterization for Spike, Best Drama, Best Original Character for Larry, Best Conventional Pairing and Best Plot for Spike Pairings. **Southern Comfort** also won for Best Romance and Best NC-17 for Spike Pairings. My Wesley/Faith story, **Elements**, won Best Unconventional Pairing, and my Willow stand-alone, **Healing Crystals**, won runner up for best Quickie Fic. Thank you so much to everyone who voted, and to the wonderfully kind person who nominated me. It really made for getting back into the writing spirit.

Likewise, **The Writing on the Wall** won Best WIP at **The Rogue Poet Awards**, and I won runner-up for Best Author. Thank you so much!

**Chapter Seventeen**

Spike was admittedly a man of many mistakes, and when he made one, he felt it with every fiber of his being. However, awareness didn't prevent him from repeating his missteps. He wasn't one for regrets—the moment was what mattered, those in the past couldn't be repeated, and it didn't figure to dwell on them. His life was a living piece of art; some strokes less attractive than the rest, but ever evolving into something grander than himself. The past was gone and couldn't be rebuilt. All he had was the moment in which he lived, and all the ones to follow.

This particular philosophy had served him well most of his life. Then he'd met Buffy, and with every botched decision, every step of the path not taken, regret drilled into his brain until he couldn't think, much less sleep for wondering what could have been had he performed just a little better, just a little quicker. If he hadn't been such an enormous lunk and fucked everything up with a simple vow.

A promise.

Buffy had changed everything.

And now here they were. Buffy so far removed from herself, sleeping soundly in his arms, warm and soft and _alive,_ and trapped in Hell forever because Spike had made a promise.

A promise to get her out.

Spike sighed heavily, eyes tracing the contours of her perfect face. He'd waited so long to get here—to spend a night with Buffy in his arms. He'd waited so long, given so much, and within an hour of seeing her, of touching her, he'd broken what could not be broken.

He wasn't one for regrets…except when it came to the things that mattered.

_No lookin' back, _he thought, sighing heavily and rolling onto his back. Buffy fell with him, her cheek nestled against his chest, her soft breaths tickling him on every exhale. She would awaken soon enough…his sleeping angel, captured forever in a barren wasteland of misery and despair. Her eyes would shine when they found him. Her mouth would curve into a smile he didn't deserve. Her hands would touch and he would tremble, and it would be like this forever because he couldn't die and neither could she.

There was a kicker. Age couldn't kill slayers. While he wasn't terribly surprised, it was a pleasant thought. For as long as he was around, Buffy would be with him.

She would be in the world…somewhere.

"Guess we solved an age old question, din't we?" Spike murmured, curled fingers exploring her cheek. "Knew time couldn't do you in. You're too much like us. You're just like us…jus' on the other side is all."

He watched her a minute longer before sighing again and turning his eyes to the walls. The walls on which she'd written her story, even if the writing was twisted into hieroglyphics only Buffy—the Buffy he loved, the Buffy locked inside the girl in his arms—could decipher. Perhaps morning had brought on new realizations, or perhaps he was bargaining with himself for redemption, but even with his foul-up in the promises department, there were certain truths that sleeping had unlocked. Certain things he understood, or hoped he understood, where last night emotion had blocked rational thought from making a dent in the tidal wave of his self-loathing.

Promises.

He'd made promises…to Buffy, he couldn't keep them contained. And yet nothing momentous had changed since the words had escaped him. Their exit had disappeared, yes, but nothing else. At the very least, he would have expected Larry to pop in, flash him a _gotcha_ grin, and disappear in a villainous cloud of smoke. The fact that he hadn't seen hair or hide of the ugly git since arriving was the only thing keeping Spike from unleashing his fury on himself.

Even if promises hadn't played a role, he couldn't fathom a scenario in which Larry let him walk out the way he came in. The brute's own words had forewarned that exiting wouldn't be nearly as simple as entering had been; the cavern would have disappeared with or without promises.

Spike had devoured blood that wasn't offered, so much as _there._ He'd made promises to Buffy, who was in Hell but not a part of it. Willow hadn't mentioned there being any loopholes, but right now, he had to believe they existed. He couldn't allow everything to collapse now; Spike was many things, but _quitter_ was certainly not on the list. No matter what, there were always ways. Bloody always. If not this, then something else, and he would find it.

Buffy would not spend an eternity in Hell. Promises made or not, Spike would find a way.

He would get her home.

*~*~*

The look in her eyes would remain with him forever. The flash of brilliance, the joy, the hope she exuded with a simple smile was enough to cripple giants. Perhaps the night had been unkind to her, but if she'd had nightmares, they hadn't been violent. The only thing Spike knew was, from the way she looked at him, Buffy had very much expected to wake up alone.

"Fancy a shower, love?" he asked conversationally as she picked at leftover warthog meat. The blood he'd drained was cold and coagulated, but he forced it down nonetheless. His rumbling stomach would, at the very least, shut up for an hour or so, and there were more pressing concerns at the moment than his appetite. "Can't be too sure of anything, but I think it might make you feel more like yourself."

Buffy wiped her mouth and grinned at him. Absorbing every word even if she didn't understand a thing she heard.

_Christ. _

"Not really a manual on this sort of thing," Spike continued. "With amnesia victims…I've seen on the telly, anyway…they say familiar surroundings helps trigger the memory. Nothing familiar here, of course, 'cept yours truly, but getting you cleaned up…might help a bit. What do you say?"

He could have told her anything he liked and received the same reaction. Right now, as she was, Buffy would follow him to the ends of the earth.

And he hated it.

"Finish up, pidge," he said, nodding at the pig meat. "We're goin' for a walk."

The streets were just as they'd left them. Endless, achingly empty, accented with whispers that followed them with every step. Buffy didn't seem bothered by the whispers; of course, she'd grown accustomed to them over the centuries. They weren't voices to her, and perhaps, eventually, they would fade into the horrid nothing that encompassed the nameless city. Spike didn't know, and he didn't want to be here long enough to find out.

And he wouldn't. _He wouldn't. _He would find a way home before the buildings became familiar or the streets etched paths into his brain. Before Hell became home for him—before this world became his world, as well. He would. He would find a way out, and he would guide Buffy back to where she belonged.

_He had to try. _

Spike didn't know how long they had walked before he had to break the silence. She remained attentive at his side, fingers curled through his, her bright eyes meeting his every few seconds with a grin that shook his core. How long had he waited to be the reason for her smiles? How long…trailing her in the cemetery, diving into the midst of her scuffles to pretend he'd saved her life, sacrificing his body to the whims of an unstable god—so much, all to see her smile. And she had repaid him in kindness; she'd kissed his lips, granted her compassion, invited him into her home, entrusted her sister into his care, and allowed him closer than he had ever deserved.

That was the Buffy he knew; the one who had understood him in those last days, who had kept blood for him in her refrigerator, who had jumped to his defense when his presence was questioned by her friends. She might not have smiled at him, but she understood.

This Buffy was all smiles but she didn't understand a word. And in turn, he had the one thing he wanted at the expense of what he loved most. Now, even with her smiles, with her hand in his and her body so willingly snuggled into his side, he wished for his Buffy back. He wanted her back so badly, if only to feel the sting of her fist smashing against his nose. For that smidgeon of normality that would give him the small victory that he'd at least dragged her out of the vast sea in which she'd lost herself.

"Scent's stronger here," Spike found himself saying. "Road looks a li'l familiar, too. Reckon this is the way I came."

Buffy just looked at him.

"I fell into the river. Think I told you that." He nodded at the road, his eyes fastening on a doorway that looked slightly more familiar than the others. Then again, that might have been his mind playing tricks on him. The buildings might as well melt into one—he couldn't recall anything particularly distinguishable from the place at which he'd showered the day before, but for his own scent lingering in the air, he felt he was on the right course. "Yeah," he murmured. "Think this is where I came. It's not much, but I know there's runnin' water in there." His brows perked upward and he shrugged. "Fancy that. Running water in Hell."

There was no response. She just smiled her blank smile and watched him, feet following his lead when he turned to approach the building around which his scent was the strongest.

"Yeah," he mused. The scene remained unchanged from the snapshot he'd memorized the day before. The scattering of boxes and trash, the turned over pieces of furniture, and the sense that the place belonged to someone…the sense that even in this wasteland, they might not be alone. "This is the place. Follow me, love."

The words weren't needed, but for the break they provided, he would keep speaking them. Buffy clasped his hand tightly, stepping over what he stepped over, twisting where he twisted, and even mimicking the small grunts he emitted when the floor groaned beneath his feet. The staircase was where he remembered, as was the bedroom to which it led. He found his discarded, blood-soaked jeans tossed into a corner and his tee draped over a gutted teddy bear. Everything looked untouched, unchanged, yet he still felt as though he was tainting a crime scene.

Strange. Things that wouldn't merit a second thought back home weighed him down when he was in a foreign land.

"Shower's this way," Spike said, fingers tightening around hers as he led her through the far door. "Kinda funny when you think of it. Spent a bloody year trying to get you naked an' now all I gotta do is turn on the faucet."

There was no response. He turned to face her, feeling all at once timid and awkward. The words were easy enough to say—easy enough to talk about in passing while he was standing in the bathroom of a vacant warehouse with the woman he loved. And yes, he knew this was the best thing he could do for her, but there was a very large part of him only now emerging from its three hundred year hibernation. He'd always loved her—always, even when he hadn't known it—but he hadn't thought about caressing her bare flesh or kissing her sweet lips in longer than he cared to consider. Rotting from the inside out tended to kill one's sex drive, even one as potent as his. Spike had only been a man remade for a day. His body remembered sex but he hadn't felt it, touched it, or experienced it in so long he'd forgotten what lust felt like.

Oh, but he remembered wanting her. Wanting Buffy. He remembered standing outside her bedroom window, torturing himself with the echoes of her faked passion against Riley's enthusiastic grunts, knowing full well it should be him sharing her bed. It should be him touching her, caressing her, unlocking her body's secrets in ways no one had before attempted. Since she became a part of his life, Spike had been consumed with the want of Buffy. He'd yearned for her, craved her, and needed her so bloody badly he could hardly stand getting up each day for knowing it would get him no closer to what he desired.

But a bloke had to try, and he had. He'd tried, and he'd gotten closer than even he had thought possible. He'd gotten to her somehow, some way; he'd made her see that his love wasn't the sick infatuation she'd labeled it. Through time and effort, he'd proved it was real. He'd proved himself to her and her friends. He'd made himself worthy, and in the end, she'd believed him. If nothing else, Spike knew that Buffy knew he loved her.

It was why she'd graced his lips with her kiss.

And that was all. A kiss. Buffy had left the world without feeling even a flicker of the inferno he felt for her. Three hundred years later—a millennia in her shoes—he stood in the bathroom of a warehouse in Hell. He'd brought her here to get her naked, and while he'd known to what lengths the suggestion could lead, he hadn't thought about this—about being intimate with her—in so long. The days in the cave had been spent just wanting to see her face. He'd ached to touch her, yes, but his mind had long detoured from getting her warm and wiggling beneath him. He'd just wanted to touch her, to feel her skin under his fingertips.

It had been ages since he'd thought about sex. Now he was standing with Buffy—the woman he loved, the woman he craved—and for the first time in centuries, he remembered fully what it felt like to be a man. The spark, the craving, fired back through his veins with a triumphant roar, screaming it had never vanished, rather retreated until such a time when calling upon lust again made sense.

There hadn't been reason to lust until now. His body was whole again, and he was with her.

He was with Buffy.

"Hey," he said suddenly, desperate to get his thoughts away from her body, the body which would be naked under his hands in a few short seconds. Her body which he would _not_ touch… No, good God, no, he wouldn't take advantage of her like that. Not here.

And yet, for all his trying, his cock had stirred to life after lying dormant for centuries, and couldn't be talked down. Spike inhaled sharply, tearing his eyes from hers the second they landed home. It was wrong—God, it was so wrong. Buffy didn't remember him; she didn't remember anything. She wasn't even Buffy where it counted, but for fuck's sake, it didn't matter to his prick. His prick hadn't been around a woman in ages, and with blood warming his veins, Buffy smiling those innocent smiles, he found himself crippled with lust so compelling it nearly drove him to his knees.

"'m sorry," Spike said suddenly. "I don't…Buffy, I have no idea if you'll remember this or anything, but I'm sorry for…" He glanced down at his irreverent cock, pressed firmly against the denim zipper. Swollen, aching…he couldn't remember his last erection. "No. I'm not sorry for this. I love you—you an' I both know it. And I haven't had a stiffy since before I left to find you…so this? I can't help this. I'm a guy, you're a knockout, and since you're…_you_…I can't just switch this off. But I don't want you thinking that what we're doing in here is for this…for me, because it's not. This is for you. I'm doing everything for you."

Buffy just blinked at him.

"I know it doesn't make any sense to you," he continued, sighing and running a hand through his hair. "An' I don't know when you're gonna be back…to yourself. I just needed to say it before I take your clothes away. It's been a long time for me, pet…an' you're all I've wanted. This here is…you're the flame an' I'm the moth, if you catch my drift." Spike looked at her a minute longer before breaking away, blinking hard and turning his eyes to the mirror. Again, his eyes clashed with his reflection, startling him for a second with the stark contrast in how he looked in actuality versus the memory he had of himself. His blond hair traded for brown locks, his extremely thin frame, the worn scars stretched across his skin—scars that would have already faded in a world with structure. Perhaps he would carry those scars forever.

"Oi," Spike said, nodding at the mirror as he dragged his tee over his head. "Check it out."

She turned in the direction indicated, a frown creasing her brow the second her eyes clashed with her reflection. She stared for a long minute, tilting her head, making faces at herself—a child discovering one of life's simple pleasures for the first time. When she was through studying her mirror's twin, she turned to Spike and waved a hand.

"What's that?"

She pointed at the mirror.

Spike looked at her a minute longer before lifting his eyes to his reflection again, tilting his head and grinning when she grinned. It had likely been centuries since she'd wandered anywhere that she didn't need to go—her days consisted of hunting, cooking, eating, and sleeping. Venturing into the city's vacant buildings wasn't a needed step…not after she discovered there was nothing to be taken from them. He hadn't spotted any mirrors in the place she called home and figured it was safe to conclude she hadn't seen herself in lifetimes.

"Remember this, pet," he advised, nodding at his own reflection. "When we get home the mirror'll look a li'l different. Vamps don't reflect…not in our dimension, at least." Spike sighed, his fingers curling around her forearm and gently coaxing her to face him. "Raise your arms for me," he instructed gently, running his hands along her underarms until they were stretched above her head. He did his best not to tremble as he dragged the shredded clothing up and away from her body, and likewise tried not to swing his gaze downward and gawk at her exposed breasts like a prepubescent teen.

"This idea really seemed good on paper," Spike muttered. He lowered his shaking hands to the torn slacks she had dragged around her waist, distracting himself briefly with idle speculation as to how she started dressing herself in the first place. Likely, once her name was forgotten, she observed she was already in clothing and retained that for the hunt. There was no way of knowing how long she'd been dressed like this—without others with whom to interact, growth and evolution was damn near impossible. She had the warthogs for food and the whispers for torment, but nothing tangible with which to relate.

No one to touch. No one to hold. Larry hadn't visited her, hadn't gifted her with a parade of spectral faces from her past. No, he'd simply left her to lose her mind in an unforgiving landscape…and she had. She'd wandered so long without anyone at her side that she'd lost what it meant to feel a caress from someone who loved her. It was why her eyes grew large every time his thumb danced across her hand—she didn't know this. This—being touched like this—was the greatest thing she could remember.

Spike inhaled sharply as the fabric around her waist pooled at the floor, jaw clenched and eyes cast downward.

_She wouldn't want this. _

No, she wouldn't…not in the way he remembered. Yet even if Buffy snapped back to herself in a moment's notice, too much had changed to believe her mentality toward him remained the same. She might never look at him the way he looked at her, but she wasn't callous, and she was smart enough to reconcile what was happening and what he'd done to make it happen.

What he'd done to get here.

This wasn't home.

Thus, with that in mind, he allowed himself to look. Allowed his eyes to trail upward, take in her bronzed flesh, linger on the thatch of dark curls between her legs before finding her breasts. And _Christ,_ was she beautiful. Standing without any sense of self-awareness, her eyes confused but unembarrassed, her body his for the taking if he so chose.

This Buffy would allow him to touch her. To caress her. To make love to her. This Buffy would welcome him.

This Buffy wasn't his. This Buffy was like his reflection—fleeting, a glimpse of something changed by circumstance, something alterable. This Buffy wasn't the same girl who had jumped. Her skin was rougher, darker, her nails un-manicured, her legs unshaven. Her hair was a long, dark tangle—far from the sun-kissed shampoo-commercial blonde that had teased him with every toss. Her body was a map of cuts and scratches, some fresh and others aged. She was a vision in her own right…a reflection of herself warped by time. And while she was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, her appearance alone stood as a stark reminder of what had happened over the past thousand years. How she'd lost herself—how she'd regressed.

Spike's jaw hardened. He dragged his eyes away with borrowed strength, doing his best to ignore the painful swelling of his cock. Too long. _Too long._ He'd been without intimacy for too long—and Buffy was the one temptation to which he could never succumb.

Not like this. He was strong enough. He could resist.

"Dru was sick for a long time," Spike found himself saying, his mind a haze and his mouth unsure of where this train of thought was headed. His eyes landed on a razor lying crooked on the edge of the sink, which he quickly placed on the top ledge of the shower door. Further investigation produced a pair of scissors on the floor and half a tube of toothpaste in the cabinet behind the mirror.

He grinned in spite of himself. Only Buffy could conceive a hell where the terror came in her surrounding's normality.

"Don't know if I ever told you what happened in Prague," he continued, kicking off his shoes and quickly shedding his jeans down his legs. His cock sprang to attention without warning, jutted proudly outward for appraisal. Spike shook his head and tried to ignore it, moving instead toward the shower. "What happened doesn't really matter," he said. "But I took care of her for a long bloody time. Brushed her hair, dressed her, bathed her…nabbed her all the tasty townies she wanted. It's been a while, yeah, but I figure there's only so much…"

Buffy wasn't listening; Buffy was staring intently at his cock.

_Bollocks. _

"Sweetheart—"

She frowned, confused, looked at herself and then at him again.

"Boys an' girls are different," he explained sheepishly, eyes darting away just as quickly. Foreign sparks of heat stretched his cheeks—he honestly hadn't thought it possible for vampires to blush until that moment. Perhaps he'd never been well and truly embarrassed before, and considering his long career of being wrong off his ass, that was a true accomplishment. "I…urrr…well, we're different. An'…I…let's jus' get in the shower, pet, yeah?"

Her frown didn't dissolve. Of course it didn't—he could explain the differences between men and women until the world collapsed in on itself and she wouldn't have any idea what he was talking about. Better to turn his attention to what he'd come here to do before his cock started doing his thinking for him. "Buffy—"

It took feeling her fingertips against his prick before he realized she'd reached for him. Spike's eyes went wide. His every nerve sparked to life. A strangled gasp scratched at his throat, and he had her wrist snatched before she could pursue her exploration. It was all he could to ignore the hard trembles tearing down his back. "No touching," he managed between pants. "I can't take it."

God, he hated himself for the way she balked in shock. As though she'd done something wrong. As though there was anything wrong in touching him. She thought he was angry, and the knowledge positively unmade him. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, raising a hand to her hair. "Don't…it's not you. You drive me crazy. So bloody crazy. You have no idea. Wanted you so bad before…before you…an' I grew to love you after. Even after I woke up after that dream…I din't know how much I loved you until…I just didn't know. But now…I haven't touched a woman in so bloody long…and now that I'm whole and with you…now…it's _you,_ pet. I've wanted you since the moment I first laid eyes on you. Outside the Bronze, remember? Wanted you since that moment, even if it took me ages to suss it out. But now, right now…I can't…I love you more than I can…an' I can't have you touch me right now. Not when you don't know what it means. What you mean to me." There was a long pause. Spike held her eyes as long as he could before turning away and reaching for the shower nozzle. Focusing on this would do neither of them any good. He'd come here with a purpose, and the faster it was complete, the faster he could return to safe ground. "Enough of this," he continued. "Let's get clean."

He felt her eyes burning through his skin with every move he made, and he had to force himself not to look at her again until twisting the shower handle. She jumped a bit when water sputtered and began to rain upon the ceramic, but she moved under the nozzle under his encouraging nod.

"Here," Spike said, moving in beside her. "Jus' hang tight, love…I'm gonna take care of everything."

And he did. No matter how difficult it was, no matter that every touch of her skin made his erection stiffer and his heart ache for the ability to pound, he ran his fingers over her soft, wet skin with an ease his body envied. Dirt browned the water and raced down her legs, spiced with flakes of red here and there where wounds had scabbed over and chipped away. He soaped his hands and ran them down her arms, caressed her stomach, scrubbed her neck, washed her face, and grinned when she smiled and sighed beneath his touch.

"Showers," he explained. "Bloody brilliant, eh, love?"

Buffy hummed her approval, stretching her arms above her head and inadvertently bumping her breasts against his chest, her hard nipples grazing his flesh. He nearly choked on a whimper. A beat—Spike swallowed hard, blinked, and moved away again, this time collecting the razor he'd placed on the shower's edge. "Stand still for me, now," he murmured, gathering the bar of soap and dropping to his knees. "This might sting."

His hands weren't going to be any help for the way he couldn't stop shaking, and the last thing he wanted to do was knick her this first time. And yet, there was no way cleaning her up and making her as true a version of herself as she'd been before the jump could hurt matters any, therefore it was imperative he place his emotions on hold and gather control of his rampaging hormones long enough to make sure he didn't do something stupid.

"Still," Spike mused again, painting her legs with soap suds. "That's my girl."

He'd never been so careful with a blade in his life—large or small, sharp or dull. And Buffy didn't budge. She just stood and watched, standing perfectly still under his hands as he shaved her legs clean. His eyes remained studiously on the track taken by his hands, painfully aware that her quim was just inches from his mouth. And Christ, did she smell divine. Warm, thick, feminine…and wet. Wet in ways he hadn't smelled or dreamt in centuries. Wet with that perfect womanly honey he longed to drench over his fingers and paint over his tongue. He hadn't done anything or touched her inappropriately…but she was wet.

_Fuck. _

Buffy was wet for him.

"Mmmm," Spike murmured, his eyes rolling heavenward as the razor trekked up her thigh. "Buffy…"

She whimpered in response.

"Can't make this easy, can you?" he replied. A few finishing strokes rendered her legs smooth as bloody silk, and he wasn't done yet. He shifted behind her without a word, hoping she'd ignore the eager prod of his cock against her rear. "Raise your arms again for me, pet."

There was no way she could follow that instruction without direction, which he provided the next second. Spike inhaled sharply, guiding her and doctoring her armpits with the razor before casting it aside completely. "Almost done," he whispered, reaching for a bottle of unlabeled shampoo. It was the same he'd used the day before, and while it wasn't his favorite, it worked better than nothing. There was no scent to it—nothing of the frilly girly aromas with which Buffy had so often taunted him back home. It was merely clean and there was nothing more he could ask in that regard. It was more than he could have hoped for in Hell.

With the larger tasks completed, Spike was left again desperate for mechanisms by which to keep his mind occupied. The situation was becoming real again—becoming something his starved body couldn't ignore. Buffy's warm flesh was pressed against his chest, his erection poking her backside, his fingers massaging her scalp. Every few seconds she would whimper her encouragement, fingers slipping over his thighs and gently scratching his skin. Showering was something so ordinary, so commonplace. Something he'd taken for granted back home—like so many other things. And with Buffy with him, touching him, moaning and teasing him with whiffs of her arousal, it was difficult to separate fantasy from reality.

So often over the past few years he'd lost himself in fantasy. Whether it be of the Buffy who had kept him company in the cave, or the dozens of different scenarios he'd entertained before the Tower, before Buffy had jumped. Things he hadn't remembered—things he'd tried so hard to forget. A thousand different things performed a thousand different ways. He was only a man—a man with a warm, willing woman…a woman he loved, and she was whimpering under his touch.

He couldn't touch her the way he wanted. He couldn't feel her the way he wanted.

Buffy wasn't really with him. Buffy was still trapped somewhere—hidden in a place he could not find. The girl in his arms _was_ the one for whom he'd searched, but she'd buried herself so far inside her Id that identifying the real thing might take…well, he didn't want to think about how long it would take.

But he couldn't touch her. She could whimper and moan and…_God…_

Unthinking, Spike lowered his mouth to her throat, tongue tracing her perfect skin as his hands slipped up her abdomen. She was so warm. _Buffy. _She was so warm, so wet…and it had been so long…

Her breasts filled his hands, her nipples poking his palms. She whimpered and mewled and he sucked harder at her flesh. God, she felt so good.

_Can't…_

"Buffy…"

_Stop. Stop. _

He didn't want to stop. Neither did she. Every time he tried to drag his fingers away, she hissed in protest. The fog surrounding his brain was too thick—the line between right and wrong blurred. It had been so long. So long…

_No. _

"No." Spike growled and tore himself away, releasing her harshly as his feet staggered back. "I'm sorry. Buffy—"

She whirled around, her eyes wide.

"Buffy—"

"Boofay," she offered quickly. Helpfully. "Boofay."

"Yes, sweetheart, I—"

"Boofay. Boofay." She took his hand in hers and guided back to her breast, and only then did he understand. "Boofay," she said again. "Boofay."

She was trying to please him by speaking. She wanted…_God…_

"Buffy—"

"Boofay."

"Don't…I can't." Spike forced his eyes downward before he broke completely, hating the devastation wrought across her face. She hadn't been touched in a millennium. Not by anyone—not tenderly, not like this. Where he hadn't felt a sensual touch in generations, she'd forgotten pleasure altogether. She'd forgotten how it felt to be caressed and loved. She had nothing to measure it by…and he wanted to give it to her. God, how he wanted to give it to her. A moment of pure pleasure in a world that offered none. Cast aside protocol, ignore the boundaries of right and wrong, and give her something she couldn't remember feeling.

_She hadn't been touched in so long…_

Perhaps it wouldn't be wrong if it was all for her. If it wasn't for him. If he gave without taking…perhaps it wouldn't be wrong.

"Guess I can't go to Hell if I'm already here," he mused, allowing his eyes to meet hers again.

She immediately seized the opportunity to try to impress him. "Boofay," she insisted again, though her voice cracked. "_Boofay." _

"Oh Buffy…"

"_Boofay." _

It hit him like a silver bullet. This was Buffy begging him.

She was _begging_ him.

"Boofay," she said again, sniffing and blinking back tears. "_Boofay, Boofay, Boofay—"_

And that was it. Something snapped, and the decision was made for him. Spike stepped forward, murmuring softly and stealing a swift kiss off her lips. That would be all he took for himself. A kiss. And though brief, it left his mouth tingling and his body weak with need. The widening of her eyes confirmed he'd taken her by surprise, but before she could move in to explore his mouth again, he slipped his hand between her legs and nestled his fingers through her curls.

"It's all right," he whispered, kissing her brow. "Spike's here. Spike's got you."

Her breath caught and she fell silent, her eyes drifting shut. And though he yearned to explore, he forced himself to remain quiet and motionless for a second—just a second. The vision she presented made his insides shiver. Needy, desperate…he'd never imagined Buffy desperate for anything. Never. She was so resolute, so steadfast, so ferociously independent, and that was why he loved her. Well, _a_ why among thousands. She was strong and self-reliant, confident and snappy. She didn't tremble or beg—he'd learned the hard way that she didn't beg—and she never asked. She was a creature of _doing._ A woman after his own heart.

Solitude had broken her, and she'd been alone so long.

"Don't hate me when you remember," Spike pleaded softly, walking her back until she was pressed against the shower wall. His lips trailed across her face as his hand began a slow exploration of the wet, silky flesh between her legs. "I just wanna make it go away. Don't hate me when you remember."

He began softly, ever mindful that she could change her mind in a flash. Mindful that she could feel something she didn't recognize, experience something she couldn't identify, and shove him away before her body unleashed secrets she had no idea how to reconcile. But even as he pressed her further, wandering fingers slipping between her drenched labia to tenderly caress her molten flesh, she did nothing but shiver and moan. A long, uneasy breath hissed through his teeth, eyes glued to her face and soaking in every sigh. She whimpered so timidly, as though afraid of being heard.

"God, you're beautiful," Spike whispered, brushing a kiss across her cheek. His fingers wandered deeper, thumb finding her clitoris and relishing the harsh gasp that rode off her lips. He edged two fingers inside her tight opening, not venturing far but wanting to feel her. Needing to feel her—needing so much, but made whole with this alone. "Yeah, sweetheart. That's it."

Buffy's eyes fluttered open and locked on his.

"Stay with me. That's it, sweetheart, stay with me."

There were a thousand things he wanted—a thousand things. His mind was on record, memorizing every expression she made, every gasp she gave him, every _everything,_ because this was something he would never have again. Outside the wondrous fantasy she gave him—this moment of pureness and warmth in the midst of the nightmare she'd created around her. She gave him so much without even trying.

"So beautiful," he whispered again, tenderly massaging her clit. She was so soft, so slippery. His fingers were drenched with her honey, and with every breath she whispered for more. More of the everything he wanted to give her.

She asked without knowing how, and there would never be enough. Not of this. He peppered kisses across her face and held her trembling body against his, wanting more, wanting this to last forever. Wanting so much of what he couldn't ask. And when she trembled and came around him, squeezing his fingers and drowning him with her soft, sweet cries, he knew what he had.

What he'd had here. In this corner of Hell. He'd had something perfect.

He'd had perfect. This here…this was his perfect.

And it was all he could ever ask.

**TBC**


	18. Chapter 18

**DISCLAIMER****: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT. PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION**

**Chapter Eighteen**

"Hold still."

Buffy wiggled with a grimace.

"If you don't hold still, it's just gonna hurt more."

More wiggling, this time accompanied by a scowl. She looked too cute to be threatening.

Spike paused and chuckled at that. If Buffy were actually with him, the thought alone would have cost a black eye. As it was, he could barely keep his chest from swelling every time his eyes caught hers in the mirror. She wore nothing but the green tee he'd had on the day before, which was at least a size too large…and while the clothes weren't his, he'd claimed them, and seeing her in something he'd worn was dangerous. It stirred urges that hadn't been stirred in years, marking her to the satisfaction of the inner primal male and proclaiming her as his.

It was only a shirt; the wiser option, as it was either this or naked. There was no way he was putting the clothes she'd worn back on her back…not when there was a healthy supply for the taking.

Spike held her eyes in the mirror, trying and failing to suppress a grin. "Never would've figured it," he mused, jerking the brush's bristles through another tangle. "Toughest bird I know, defeater of gods, an' you're afraid of a little hairbrush."

She looked for a minute as though she resented the statement before her expression melted into a whimper, effectively killing his mirth. Her hair was in an unmanageable tangle, twisted and knotted through years of neglect; making every stroke was more painful than the last. And even though he was loath to cause her pain, he found this to be the most familiar, easiest task he'd undertaken in three centuries. Taking care of the woman he loved was something he knew. Something with which he was intimately familiar…and something told him that Buffy at her worst would still be buckets better than Dru at her best.

"Not sure what you do for fun around here," he continued awkwardly. "'m willing to take suggestions."

Buffy whimpered and tried to duck away, only to be caught in Spike's arm.

"Ah, ah, ah," he chastised. "Not so fast, love. Still got a few tangles."

She mewled again before settling into a firm sulk. It didn't do much good. Spike smiled and tightened his grip, though he couldn't keep his heart from melting. There was no force more powerful than the Buffy pout. "I know it hurts, love," he cooed encouragingly. "Just look at me. Watch me."

Her gaze locked with his again in the mirror. There was such intelligence there—such fiery wit. Sparks of the real girl thrived well within her eyes, trapped behind a barrier she couldn't lift. It was so strange having her with him and missing her at the same time. Buffy was still far away, locked inside herself, and the one-sided conversation he pursued with her reflection only strengthened the need to touch her again.

Touch her…

Spike's jaw tightened and he shook his head, turning his eyes to the ground. No. _No. _What had happened in the shower could not happen again. No matter how wonderful it had been, how glorious it had been. How his mind couldn't help but drag him back to those few blissful seconds where he'd shown her a world beyond misery. How he'd felt her gasp and pant, how he'd felt her strangle and drench his fingers with her rich, tantalizing honey. It was over, behind them, and it didn't do any good to dwell on what he couldn't have.

Not until she was with him. Really with him.

"I miss you," Spike murmured softly, nuzzling her hair. "Wherever you are. God, I miss you so much."

Buffy blinked and quirked her head. It wasn't much, but it was enough to stir him back to himself. In an easy second, he'd plastered on a smile, as the brush in his grip unraveled another tangle.

"No worries, kitten," he assured. "It's all right."

One thing at a time. Right now, his attention remained with her hair. Next, it would be with catching the night's meal. Buffy would emerge when she emerged; wishing did little more than make the girl who needed him feel inadequate, and he couldn't bear making her more self-conscious than she was for the simple crime of having lost herself after a thousand years of silence.

None of this was her fault.

None of it.

Spike sighed, his eyes dropping to the edge of the sink where he'd placed the scissors. "Fancy a haircut?" he asked.

Buffy's nose wrinkled.

"Bloody miracle you're not Rapunzel," he commented, running his fingers through her freshly-combed hair. "Don't worry, pet. I love your hair. Jus' gonna take off a few inches, is all."

A foot or so was more like it, but words made little difference. Spike inhaled sharply, draping her hair between the blade wedges and keeping careful watch of her face the second he snipped her length away. Hair was important to women—even the batty ones like Dru—and though it had been lifetimes since he found himself in the position to intimately care for anyone, his hands didn't shake, his mind didn't set traps for him, and he didn't second guess himself. He knew Buffy. He knew every tendril, had a mental snapshot of the way her golden locks framed her face, how her hair bounced in the middle of a fight. He knew every inch of her so well.

His hand didn't quiver. Didn't hesitate.

He couldn't doubt when he knew her better than he knew himself.

"There," he murmured, brushing wisps off her shoulders. Her hair hit her where it had when she jumped, best to his memory. It wasn't the best style she'd ever sported, but already she looked better than she had the day before. She looked more like herself. "Pretty as a picture." He paused when her eyes met his, her hands exploring the job he'd done. "Know it's not what you're used to, but I'm no bloody stylist."

Buffy's fingers curled in her hair, her eyes shining at him.

"Come on," he said, ushering her toward the adjoining bedroom. "Let's see if we can find somethin' other than my shirt for you to wear."

Spike reckoned in all his life he'd never worked so quickly to put clothes on a woman after taking them off. Given what had occurred in the shower, he didn't trust himself to keep her in any state of undress too long. His senses were too keen, his body starved for touch—starved for _her_—and parading her around in all her glory was essentially waving a willing meal before a ravenous man. In a flash, he had her covered in an oversized long-sleeved navy cotton shirt and a pair of black leggings which, much to his dismay, did little to sate his voracious appetite. If anything, a wet-haired, wide-eyed Buffy, still flush from her orgasm and dressed in men's clothing was more lethally tempting than anything for which he could have prepared himself.

There _was_ no preparing for this. For the wonderful torment of having her so close, so willing, yet so completely off limits.

Better to get his mind on a different track altogether. Spike whistled a long sigh and shook his head. There was nothing more he figured on doing here—the prime objectives conquered. Buffy looked brilliant and smelled divine, and while she was still far from the picture in his memory, she was closer than even he could have hoped.

"No frilly scents," he observed. "You weren't one to over-pamper, but I know you fancied lavender. Used to spray it on before every patrol."

Buffy smiled, entertaining herself with her oversized sleeves.

"Time to head back, then." Spike moved forward and took her by the arm. "See if we can find another roast for tonight."

She nodded as though she understood and placed herself faithfully at his side, mimicking the steps he took and the curves his body made as she had when they first arrived. The empty streets appeared a shade darker, marking the maturation of the day as the perimeters of the dimension spun toward nightfall. He hadn't planned on spending the entire day at the warehouse, but somewhere between shaving Buffy's legs and cutting her hair, he'd lost track of the hours.

_Somewhere between…_

God, he'd really fucked himself over. Convincing himself he was acting on her behalf, telling himself it was what she deserved—something she needed after lifetimes without anyone to touch. Something that wasn't at all for him.

Only of course it was. It was entirely for him. The way she smelled. The way she sighed. The way she whimpered and arched against him, her soft, silky pussy around his fingers, drenching him with liquid desire. Things he'd only imagined before—forbidden fantasies that had driven him mad in life and death. In a blink, every pang, every twist, every jerk his battered heart had ever endured, his overactive mind had ever suffered, blasted through the walls solitude had built. His sex-drive revived, his body pumped with harsh waves of crippling lust…and he'd allowed himself a touch.

He'd allowed those fantasies to take shape. He knew things now—things he could only before imagine. True, he'd always known how she smelled when she was hot; he'd sniffed her enough when they first met. From the beginning, in good ole Sunnydale High that night they first came together in battle. She'd been so warm, so fiery—her body spiced with arousal and adrenalin. She couldn't hide from him then—not as she learned to in the years that followed. She'd been so young, virginal, unschooled in ways girls didn't appreciate until after adulthood had seized them fully. And while, yes, she had grown up much sooner than any teenager ever should, she'd possessed such precious innocence when they first crossed paths—innocence that couldn't be described. Innocence that once lost was lost forever. And in the early days, she'd let him know in a thousand ways how easily it would have been to take the forbidden. How he could have claimed her without any struggle at all. She might have loved Angel, but her teenage hormones left her a time-bomb that would have gone off for anyone who gave it attention. He'd enjoyed fusing and defusing her, especially knowing he could have ignited her fuse any way he pleased. She might have hated him then, but her mind was still open, curious, aroused by danger and anyone's to conquer. She would have let him have a taste if he'd pursued it.

The fantasies had started back when she barely qualified as a pedophile's wet-dream, and time had only strengthened his hunger. The more he knew her, the more he wanted to know her. Her beauty and allure increased with each day, flavored her life with experiences that had made her into the woman with whom he'd fallen in love. Her soft girlish skin had smoothed into a woman's curves and the punches and kicks they'd traded were exchanged for verbal skirmishes, not to mention more pops in the nose than he cared to relive. She'd grown up before his eyes, and while he'd always been obsessed with her, while he might have loved her since the beginning, there was no match for the woman she'd become. The woman he'd braved Hell to find.

The woman he'd had only vivid fantasies to call upon, until he let his dick convince his brain that touching her when she couldn't know what it meant was the right thing to do. The thing she _needed_ when she couldn't known right now what she truly needed. When she didn't know him beyond the understanding that his presence meant she was no longer alone. He'd always had her scent in his nostrils and her taste in his mouth, and he'd known how her skin felt beneath his fingertips from the few times she'd allowed him to touch her. He'd had those things before to bolster the fantasies. And now…

_Now…_

Now he had everything in his imagination filled in for him. Her moans. Her sighs. Her gasps. Her honey. Her warmth.

He had everything.

Christ, he shouldn't have touched her. He shouldn't have allowed those fantasies to know reality.

She'd unwittingly given him the most perfect moment of his life, and he could never touch it again. Not like this. Not when the part of Buffy he wanted the most was lost among the inner debris.

_And that's the rub. _Spike glanced up, absorbing her sweet face, her innocent eyes…those eyes that would follow him anywhere.

The part of her he wanted was gone, and he wouldn't be satisfied with anything else. And he sure as fuck wouldn't take advantage of her. Another time, another life, other circumstances…he'd been a soulless prick and proud of it, but the ground on which he now trod was paved far off the beaten track of anything he'd ever ventured. This was different. _He_ was different. And he loved her too much to make it about him, and today, try as he might to convince himself otherwise, _had_ been about him. Whatever he did, however he touched her, whatever boundaries he broke were so broken because he wanted them gone. It wasn't because she needed it…no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise.

He'd find her. Somehow, some way, he would pull her from the shadows in which she'd buried herself. He'd find her.

He had all the time in the world.

*~*~*

Spike couldn't begin to imagine how bloody sick Buffy must be of pork. Day in and day out, for a thousand years, experiencing nothing but the mundane taste of roasted pig. She'd likely never again ask to carve the Christmas ham once he had her home.

"About had your fill, love?" he asked, wiping her mouth with the corner of his shirt. For something she ate every day, she gobbled it up with all the enthusiasm of a woman who didn't know from where her next meal was coming. She'd exhibited surprise when he began the hunt for another animal, which led him to believe she didn't eat every day and likewise went a long way in explaining why she was so thin. Buffy always had been a tiny slip of a thing—more so toward the end than ever—but she was similarly a girl who liked a good meal. She never starved herself for the sake of vanity; Lord knows she didn't need to for all the exercise she got both in training and on the hunt. However, after having lost herself and all semblance of what it was to be human, the routine of eating had likely slipped into something she only did when hunger pains mounted toward starvation.

No way to evolve without others. She'd been alone, and stripped of the ability to grow.

"Ready for a bit of kip, then?" Spike questioned, nodding at the makeshift bed. "Figure today was all right, wasn't it?"

A soft smile tickled her lips, her eyes brightening. And though it was fleeting, he couldn't help but feel that she understood him.

"Nothing too exciting, of course," he continued, doing his best to keep images of her hot body pressed against him, her pussy strangling his fingers, at bay. The last thing he needed was another stiffy, especially when his body was still tense from the stolen moments they had enjoyed earlier. Anything more and he'd have to sneak off for a wank, and given that it had been three centuries since the last time he'd pleasured himself, he wasn't sure that was the best of ideas. Not at the moment, anyway. Not when Buffy could stumble upon him; not when he didn't know how long it would take to relieve this bloody edge…

_Nothing too exciting._ Who the fuck was he trying to fool?

"I'll have to go to the river tomorrow," he said. "Get somethin' to eat."

Again, Buffy looked as though she understood. She even nodded.

Spike paused, his heart about leaping into his throat. While it didn't do well to get his hopes up, he couldn't help but wonder for one glorious second if it was possible. If he'd done more good by her than even he could have anticipated…if a sensation had triggered a memory…if she was fighting through the forest that was her mind to a place where things made sense again.

_Could she…_

He held her gaze and swallowed hard. Such intelligence. Such strength. All locked behind those emerald eyes.

Best not to get his hopes up.

Spike inhaled sharply and nodded at the bed. "Hop in, pidge."

Buffy just looked at him.

He sighed. _So much for wishful thinking._ "Here," he said, stepping forward and taking her arm. "Let's just—"

She stopped, shaking her head and hardening her stance.

Spike frowned. "What's wrong?"

No response, of course, but he didn't expect one. There was nothing until she shook his hand off her arm and seized his wrist, and by the time he realized she was guiding it to her pussy, it was too late. Her warmth was pressed against him, tickling his nose with a fresh wave of potent slayer arousal and dulling the sensors that guided him through moral gray areas. All at once the insipid line between what _was_ right and what _felt_ right melted into nothing.

_Be strong. _

Hard bloody words to live by when she looked at him like that.

"Buffy—"

She offered a fast, enthusiastic nod, sounds that could have been words scratching at her throat.

_Oh Christ. _

"No," Spike said harshly, fervently. "I can't. We can't. It's—"

The fire in her eyes dimmed.

"It's not you, kitten," he swore. "I want this more than you can bloody well imagine. I jus' can't take it, all right? What happened in the shower was a one-time thing. A mistake. A…"

If he didn't know better, he would have sworn she flinched. Perhaps _mistake_ was a universal term, understood only by women in whatever language it was uttered. He didn't know; all he knew was his heart wilted when she blinked back tears. In an instant his world unraveled. The vows he'd made to himself folded in favor of the same rationalization that had possessed him before. The logic he'd used to pacify the conscience he shouldn't command; to justify touching her the way he had. Senses dulled and reality faded. Buffy was pressed against him, her watery eyes shining up at him, a wordless plea riding her muted lips for something she didn't know how to express.

_It's not her, _his mind warned. _It's not her…_

And it wasn't. He knew it—for fuck's sake, he'd repeated it mercilessly to himself to keep this from happening again. But when he met her eyes, Buffy was all he saw. The Buffy he knew; the Buffy he loved. There were no lines, no boundaries, no clearly marked sign labeling a wrong turn. Buffy might not be behind the wheel, but the girl in his arms was Buffy where it mattered most.

He'd told himself no. He'd sworn a bloody oath.

_But she hadn't been touched in so long…_

How could he deny her the one thing she'd asked of him?

"Promise me one thing," Spike whispered, brushing his lips across her cheek. "When you remember me, remember this, you'll also remember I tried." A long breath shuddered through his body, hands gently guiding her back until her ankles brushed the bed. This time when she stiffened in protest, he shook his head, nuzzling her throat and rubbing soothing circles into her shoulders as he guided her to the ground. "It's all right. I'm here. I'll take care of you."

He would never understand how he could burn so brightly under her smile without dusting, especially now when his hands shook and his knees knocked and he did his best not to fumble like a schoolboy. She was so beautiful. So open and trusting, warmth beyond anything he'd ever tasted burning her eyes. And for an instant, he found himself back in his crypt, lost in her eyes as they met each other with understanding. He'd always been there for her. Even when they were enemies, he'd waved a white flag and taken a stance at her side, no matter how rigidly his demon protested. Even when his bones were at the mercy of an irate hell-god, he held his head high and asked for more. Even when he had no reason to keep fighting, his fists remained raised and ready to strike. No matter the cause, he'd always been there. Always.

He wouldn't stop now. Not when she needed him the most.

"It's all right," Spike said again, cursing the hands that trembled as he fisted the hem of her over-sized shirt and drew it over her head. Her nipples puckered the second they kissed air, dragging his eyes downward and making his mouth water. Strange that she didn't blush or turn away; Buffy might have been a woman of the world, but she was always so conscious of herself, of the way she looked to those around her, both internally and externally. He'd never imagined her baring herself with such unaccustomed openness, and though he wished he could believe this was something she gave to him and him alone, the truth wasn't nearly as flattering. He could be anyone so long as he was with her right now. So long as he saved her from silence.

Buffy inhaled sharply when he cupped a breast, eyes falling shut and her head rolling back. And Spike was doomed to follow; his mouth falling to her throat. "You're perfect," he murmured, stretching out beside her. "So perfect."

"Ahhh…"

"Always were to me, love. The perfect enemy. The perfect slayer. The perfect woman. Perfect for _me."_ He sighed, hands dropping to her leggings. "Bloody well perfect for me. Lift your hips." Spike tugged on her hemline to indicate intent, and she obeyed without hesitation. God, it shouldn't be so easy. Not with Buffy. Nothing ever was. But just like that she was naked and beneath him, her body open and inviting. And completely his.

_Wrong. _

"Mmm…" Her hips rolled upward in offering, betraying womanly expertise which should have been lost to her. "Uhhh…"

Spike smiled softly and kissed her cheek, hand abandoning her breasts and tracing down her abdomen. "So lovely," he murmured, unable to keep his head from dipping so his tongue could curl around one of her nipples. God, she tasted sweeter than he could have imagined. Every nerve in his body quivered. "It's all right. Jus' let me…"

The river that drenched his fingers when he slid his hand between her legs was enough to render his balls a cold, hard blue, and he couldn't, with a good conscience, touch himself…not while he was doing this. As long as he kept his pleasure separate from hers, there was some leeway with his conscience. Blur that line and everything was lost. Not that she made it easy. God, no. One touch, one simple caress, and her hot nectar flowed over his fingers, tightened his every cell and compounded the need for release. It had been _so long. _"Oh, Buffy," he murmured, gently caressing her labia before parting her completely. "So warm. So fucking warm…let me…"

"Ahhh…"

"That's it, darling," he said encouragingly, unable to keep from licking her nipple again. "Jus' let it go."

He teased her gently for a few mindless seconds, penetrating her opening with a few shallow thrusts before turning his attention completely to her clitoris. Weeks could be spent enjoying Buffy's body, exploring everything he'd only dreamt about for so long—he could stay here happily and never tire. But this wasn't about him, and he couldn't fool himself. She would cling and gasp, hold onto him as he introduced her to levels of pleasure her mind had forgotten, but it wasn't about him. It could never be about him. He had to keep his distance, keep his involvement minimal. He had to make sure she understood what it meant when she returned to him.

He had to make sure Buffy knew he'd done this for her.

"I love you," Spike murmured, drawing lazy circles around her clit. "I love you, Buffy. You hear me?"

She gasped and scratched at him, and he pressed harder.

"I love you. Remember that."

Perhaps it was too much to ask, but he didn't care. It was something that needed asking. Something he had to say.

He had to get the words between them so she knew. So when the day came that she opened her eyes and saw him, she would recognize what had passed.

If there was one thing he would take for himself, this was it.

He needed her to know it was about her—and always had been.

**TBC**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N**: I've briefly talked about this on my LJ, but in lieu of the emails and other messages I've received concerning the status of this story, I thought I'd assert myself here. I have not stopped writing this. I know updates are becoming more spread apart, but believe me, I'm never giving up this story. I waited too long to write it and I want it finished as much as anyone. I might have to take breaks here and there to work on something light-hearted, but this story is my first priority. I just want to make sure when I work on it, I'm doing it justice and writing because I want to, not because I feel like I should. Likewise, I'm often drained when I get home from work…and working on this story can, at times, add insult to injury. But I love it—I really do. I just want to make sure the writing is _good,_ not writing for the sake of writing.

The next chapter is complete; I've sent it off to my betas. I might take a break to work on something a little fluffier here and there to get the juices going; believe me, once I get my muse going, there ain't no mountain high enough.

Thank you much to all my readers and my wonderful betas for sticking through with me. I will not let you down.

**Chapter Nineteen**

When he stared, he could almost see her. Jagged glass in hand, her skin bloodied, tears scalding down her cheeks as she carved into the walls. More than just a snapshot in his head or an image that plagued him long after day had rolled into night, it was as though the shadows themselves came to life. As though Buffy assumed form outside her body, captured in a loop and cursed to repeat her actions over and over again until consciousness and flesh were reunited.

Spike sighed heavily. The scribbling blurred into nothing the longer he stared.

"What are you trying to tell me, pet?" he murmured, gently brushing hair away from Buffy's eyes. She had fallen asleep in ten minutes, which he found amusing even if he wasn't surprised. After centuries without human contact, two orgasms in one day would do a lot to tire anyone out…even someone with the strength and durability of a slayer.

The quiet was nice. Holding Buffy to his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart beating against him, her soft breaths rolling over his skin…drinking in all the things he'd yearned for, and hoping with everything he was that she would be herself when her eyes opened again. It wouldn't happen; it was too soon and he hadn't done nearly enough to rescue her from her private prison. But for the moment, at least, he could pretend. Pretend she was sleeping off hours of rampant love-making, where her eyes were locked with his, where she knew who he was, and where she held him to her breasts as she whispered how much she loved him.

It was the fantasy. A fantasy he'd entertained longer than he remembered. A fantasy that rendered the image he'd constructed for himself nothing but a fancy costume.

Spike smiled, shaking his head. Another random bolt of normalcy, just when he didn't think he would feel remotely normal again. They always struck when he was least expecting it. He didn't figure he'd cared a damn about his reputation in…well, centuries. Loving the Slayer had made every other thing he'd ever considered important obsolete in comparison.

A long, tired sigh fell off his weary shoulders.

There was a long road ahead. A long, lonely road. The loneliest of all roads. The road he traveled with the woman he loved, but still remained alone. Buffy wasn't with him. Buffy was still far away.

He still had to find her.

*~*~*

Something hard punched his shoulder, thrusting him out of a dreamless sleep. It took a few bleary-eyed moments to recall where he was, but by the time memory had caught up with consciousness, his eyes were consumed with Buffy's terror-stricken face.

"What?" he demanded, bolting up. "Buffy, pet, what—"

The second he spoke, her face fell in warm relief. It wasn't until she patted him, until he noticed where her hand rested, that realization dawned.

And _fuck,_ did it dawn.

"Oh, Buffy," Spike murmured, tension dropping from his shoulders. "You won't feel anything there. It doesn't beat. It'll never beat…but I'm here, see?" He took her free hand and pressed it against his cheek, his thumb rubbing circles into her skin. "I'm jus' fine. It's just this…vamps don't have heartbeats. When the demon takes us, it takes everything. Pulse, heart, soul and all."

His words had lost her interest; Buffy's concern faded entirely in favor of fascination. Her hand remained against his chest, fingers flexing curiously, her brow furrowed as though she thought she could find a beat if she looked hard enough. Whatever futile explanation waited poised on his lips fell away completely in favor of adoration—the same fuzzy feeling that had warmed his long-dead insides over the past couple days as he walked alongside her in her journey of self-discovery. She was learning everything over again, and he got to learn it with her.

"Think that's something, do you?" he asked, capturing her chin and directing her gaze upward. "Watch this."

And, without ceremony, he allowed his fangs to descend.

The reaction wasn't entirely what he expected. Buffy roared a gasp, her eyes widening with terrified alarm before evolving into something else entirely. Something foreign. Something he'd never before experienced. The sort look he'd seen on old-timers' faces as they reflected on the _good ole days_ with a haze only nostalgia could provide; like looking through a catalogue for a forgotten novel where the plot was crystal clear but the title was long forgotten. Buffy remembered the song but not the lyrics; she stared through eyes that recognized without knowing how or why. It was humbling and uncomfortable all at once; there was no way to react to an emotion he'd never confronted. She stared and stared, peeling away layers he hadn't known existed until there was nothing to do but look away.

Her hand stopped him and every molecule in his body froze.

"Buffy…"

Her trembling fingers explored his ridges, her lips forming words her voice couldn't find. And he was helpless to do anything but watch.

She knew this but she didn't know how. She knew him. She _knew…_

"You remembering, kitten?" Spike whispered, closing a hand around her wrist. He'd forgotten how his voice thickened when maneuvering through fangs. "Any of this trigger anything?"

She must have understood that particular question, for immediately her face fell away in shame.

"Oh, sweetheart, don't—" He sighed and shook his head, the bones in his face falling back to his human mask. "It's not your fault. Don't ever think I'm upset with you for not knowing, yeah? There's no reason you should remember anything just yet. Figure I'm lucky jus' to have you like this. For as long as I begged the sodding Powers to let me make it this far, I'm just thankful to have you with me."

There was a look in her eyes that made him believe she comprehended more than she realized, for when she nodded, it was in understanding rather than reaction. He didn't know how he knew but he didn't question it. Just as he wouldn't question the soft smile that stretched her mouth or the sudden spark of inspiration that brightened her face. Before he could blink, Buffy was on her feet and pulling him along with her.

"Where—"

She shook her head, pressed a finger to her coy, grinning lips and motioned for him to follow her.

And Spike, ever her slave, was helpless to do anything but obey.

*~*~*

It took realizing that his eyes were fixated on her bronzed, luscious ass to grasp that she had stepped outside without wearing a stitch of clothing. In a blink, Spike stripped off the shirt he'd slept in and drape it over her head before her bouncing breasts gave his cock ideas it didn't need.

"You're gonna drive me outta my mind," he told her. "Can't be good. Can't be wicked. Can't be a bloody saint for you, sweetheart. It's been three hundred years, an' you know how I feel."

His words were wasted; as she had the day before, Buffy was entertaining herself with his oversized sleeves.

"At least you _did,"_ Spike continued. "You _knew_ how I felt before you went in. Don't expect you to remember it, but the way you looked on those stairs. You understood me, even if you didn't want to. You believed me in the end."

Buffy stifled a laugh. A thread along the hem had come loose and was dancing a ticklish path across her thigh.

"Well," he said with finality, kissing her cheek. No sense trying to get her to see what he couldn't explain. He was her caregiver, and he'd be happy for it. No matter how difficult it became, or how often she flaunted her body in front of him. The night before had given him perspective, and there were certain things he would no longer fight. Buffy needed touch, and he was going to give it to her whenever she asked…but _only_ if she asked. He wouldn't deny her what she needed, nor would he take for himself. It was the only way to placate the conscience that shouldn't exist and give the warring devils in his head something over which to agree.

For now, he had his definitions in line. Touching Buffy was all right just so long as she wanted it. Just so long as she initiated it. Touching Buffy because _he_ wanted it was out of the question. At least for now. Until she remembered.

_If_ she remembered.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, kissing her cheek. She tasted so sweet. "Beautiful."

Buffy flushed against his skin, pulling back to gift him with a bright smile. Every nerve in his body warmed.

"What's this you wanted to show me, then?" Spike asked, voice strained. It was better to keep his mind on the task at hand.

And again, as though she understood, Buffy immediately ceased playing with the sleeves and turned on her heel to continue on her way, her steps full of spring and her ass just barely visible with every bounce.

Spike groaned inwardly. Sometimes _not_ seeing forbidden fruit was the greater of two evils. It allowed one's imagination to run rampant. And fuck, wasn't life a bloody hoot? He remembered Drusilla dancing naked under the stars in a town full of churchgoers and it not bothering him a lick. Give him Buffy in a deserted town that her own fears had concocted, and suddenly he was opposed to indecent exposure.

Well, that wasn't quite right, but it was close enough. He didn't much care if Buffy flashed her goodies all over the place, just so long as she knew what she was doing…and what it was doing to him. In this state she hadn't a sodding clue; even if she did, she was still much too childlike to mean anything more than purely instinctive sexual curiosity. It was the reason she'd looked at him quizzically but hadn't fought when he pulled his shirt over her body, the same reason she smiled when he'd kissed her cheek. She knew they were something to each other without knowing what, or even understanding how such relationships worked.

A bloody delight, she was. In whatever incarnation, Buffy was his sunshine.

It didn't occur to him that he knew the path they traveled until the smell was thick and heavy in the air, and even then it took seeing the crimson waves for the significance of her offering to settle in. Where she'd brought him. Where she'd known to bring him without knowing anything at all.

_Christ…_

"Buffy…"

She just smiled at him expectantly, rocking slightly on her heels.

Perhaps it was innate. Perhaps there were certain things one simply knew. It had been a long time since Spike gave a fig about philosophy—the study itself was more a William thing, though try as he might to bury the shadows of his human past, a few things from the finer world had trailed him unhappily in the years that followed his death. He remembered a theory that people were born with infinite knowledge, locked away in the mysterious unused portion of the brain. There wasn't such a thing as _the unknown_—knowledge just had to be relearned.

Whether or not there was truth to philosophy, he didn't know. Philosophy was funny that way. One bloke spurs out a theory and another contradicts it with something that sounds just as probable if padded with the right wording. However, in watching Buffy, it seemed there almost had to be some truth to the belief. To the notion that she already knew everything she had forgotten. There was no other way she could have known to bring him here. No other way the notion would have crept into her head. As a slayer, identifying vampires would be second nature, especially when flashed a pair of fangs. Perhaps seeing Spike's incisors had triggered something she couldn't yet reconcile with her reality—he didn't know. All he knew was Buffy had led him directly to the place his demon had been craving.

The river. The long, delicious, deep red river. The scent alone made his stomach ache and his fangs tingle. Spike stared at the rolling waves of red for a long, frozen moment before turning to meet Buffy's achingly hopeful eyes.

God, and then he understood. This was her present to him, her gratitude in the form of something for which he could never ask and wouldn't take with her at his side…unless it was like this. Unless she was with him and comprehended what he needed. And she did. In ways he couldn't grasp, Buffy knew _exactly_ what he needed, and this was her offering. Something she wanted him to have in return for all he had given her. Something she wanted to give _him._

The uncarved block. She understood because she knew what she was doing, she knew what he was, even if her advanced thought hadn't developed. She knew him well enough to know what he needed.

She knew he was a vampire and she didn't care. At least for the moment, she didn't care.

"Thank you," Spike said, smiling. "Jus' what the doctor ordered, pet. Another day an' I would've eaten my own bloody arm."

The way her face brightened could have warmed the earth.

*~*~*

He'd forgotten this feeling.

When he'd fallen from the cavern, the blood he'd consumed had been for survival above all else. It had been delicious—Christ, the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted, but even with only two days between him and that momentous plunge, the event stood in his memory as one of redefinition rather than satisfaction. His previously dead limbs surging with life his body had forgotten, thriving on energy that would have killed him had he been anything less than what he was. It hadn't been about the pleasure of eating; it had been about living.

It wasn't that way now. Warthog blood had sustained him, but the blood in the river was human. Human blood to complete Buffy's nightmare. Her curse was his salvation, and though he hated what it had done to her, at the moment, he couldn't be more thankful. He felt pumped and alive in ways beyond his experience. It was a gunshot through the dark, the way it all came flooding back. Restless energy. Strength beyond imagine. The need for sport. The need for fun. The need for _violence._ God, he hadn't had a good brawl in ages. His limbs hadn't had the strength to lift, much less throw in for a tumble. He needed it now like he never had before. Never. Not even after being handicapped by a government chip.

He remembered the chip. The chip had harnessed him, chained him, put a muzzle over his fangs and kept him leashed. Discovering demons were fair game had been a saving grace. He'd spiraled into a rediscovered life; he'd been reborn.

Whatever he felt now was beyond rebirth, and God, he wanted to share it. Share it the only way he knew how.

Share it in a way that would make them _both_ feel like themselves.

"Oi," Spike said suddenly. "Slayer."

It was the blood rush; it _had_ to be the blood rush, though he could honestly say it seemed like a good idea at the time. Buffy had been quiet since leaving the river, though there was no mistaking the way her eyes widened or her pulse quickened the second his words hit the air. She _almost_ had time to block the mad punch he sent flying toward her face…almost, but not quite. The familiar smack of flesh striking flesh filled the horrified silence between them, accented with a surprised grunt and completed with Buffy's abrupt collapse. The rush faded just as quickly, reality returning with an ugly sneer. Spike's eyes went wide and every molecule in his body froze.

Well, almost every molecule. The nerves attached to his legs knew exactly what to do.

"Oh God," he muttered, falling to his knees at her side. "Oh God…Buffy! Buffy, Christ, pet, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. I didn't…it's the blood, yeah? Made my brain short-circuit. I didn't think, I'm so sor—"

Buffy's head flipped up and he found himself capsized under a stare icy enough to freeze the ground beneath his feet.

"S-slayer?"

Her fist smashed into his cheekbone, and the next thing he knew, he was airborne and barreling into the brick wall of a vacant warehouse. The world changed again in an explosion of pain; pain in a category all on its own; pain he hadn't felt in generations. Pain that rocketed through every corner of his body.

It was _fantastic. _

"Fuck yeah!" Spike growled, rolling onto his feet. "That's the ticket, there, Slayer. Give it to me."

She seemed willing to oblige. Her eyes were bright with fire, her chest heaving breaths too large for her small body, but there was resilience in her form he'd nearly forgotten. For the first time in a long time, the girl was gone. All was left was the warrior.

_Glorious._

"You remember this, don't you?" he demanded, fists flying upward. "The dance? Feels right. Familiar. Haven't had a good thrash in ages, I'd wager. No willing partner. No vamps to slay. Jus' bloody pigs, and fuck knows they don't put up a fight. You know this, love. Now give it to me. _Give it to me!" _

The lady needed no encouragement. Each move she made was a piece of living art. She bent. She twirled. She kicked. She threw punches. She poured herself into every twist, and for a brilliant moment, he saw her as she always had been. It was as though nothing had changed. They were back in Sunnydale, battling on the streets, in the cemetery, duking it out over who-knows-what. Trading blows, catching each other's tosses with the ease of old friends who knew every word in a well-rehearsed quarrel.

Buffy knew this as well as she knew anything. She was, at her root element, the Slayer.

_His_ slayer.

"Can't remember the last time we had it out like this, can you?" Spike demanded, jumping eagerly from one place to the other. "Maybe that time over the gem, yeah? Right before those bloody soldier boys shoved that piece of tin up my noggin." He ducked a swing to the head and countered with a fierce blow to her gut. Her wheeze of pain barely registered. "Think that was what I missed most about bein' strapped in. Made a good play of it bein' for the sport, but dancing with you, pet? Taking that away was the kicker. God, how I've missed this."

Buffy growled and seized him by the collar.

"That's it!" Spike encouraged, even as the ground beneath his feet vanished. "Now give us a good throw, eh?"

She shrugged and the next thing he knew, his body had shattered hard against an exterior wall. Pain resurged, but without the thrill of novelty it had provided mere seconds ago. This was, too, a feeling he remembered—one of sore muscles meeting with angry fists behind a force that didn't know the meaning of _fatigue. _

It hurt like a bitch, but the hurt was welcome.

"Always with the walls," he moaned, his head rolling upward. "That move _was_ a favorite of yours."

She offered another shrug, this one reading: _You asked for it, buddy. _

That was a point he had to concede.

_All right, Spike. _The fire in her eyes was too vivid to be from exercise alone, and it wasn't hard to see why. He'd attacked her without provocation, and though she might know more than she understood, she had no context in which to place a fight. This whole excursion was likely a path in the wrong direction, but then there was no telling if she was truly brassed off or just playing with him. No way to know whether or not she understood the first punch hadn't been malicious. And while he knew he should stop, the larger part of him didn't want to over-think it. This was the first thing in _years_ that had felt even somewhat normal. More than an instant or a surge—he felt like himself in ways he hadn't in lifetimes. If the price was calming the beast later, so be it. It was worth it.

It took a few seconds for the world to stop spinning. "Fuck me, but you haven't lost your touch, have you?" Spike drawled, slowly climbing to his feet. "Like old times, eh, love? But then you haven't gone for the nose yet."

Her eyes flickered. It was brief but very present, and though it faded before he had time to evaluate it, he knew it had to mean something.

"Or yapped my ears off with your li'l quips," Spike prodded. "Given me one of your brilliantly empty threats. 'If you're lying, I'll stake you good and proper,' that sort of rubbish. Might as well tell you now, you never had me worried. Figured I'd let you think I was on your leash, just to be friendly-like, but yeah, I always knew the truth. Had too much of a soft-spot for your Spike, didn't you? At least I was good enough to be used as your punching bag whenever muck-for-brains was too sore to don the padding. Then again," he added with a grin, "I always liked it when you hit me."

Right on cue, Buffy raised her fist, but Spike was there to catch her this time. "Ah, ah, ah," he murmured, hand closing around her wrist. "Think that's enough for today. Didn't mean to get all…just brought back some fond memories, is all. Wouldn't wanna waste all this strength on taking you out, now would I?"

There was a pause. Her eyes remained slanted and her expression dubious for a long, lingering minute, and then she seemed to understand.

"There, now, love," he murmured, thumb softly caressing her inner wrist. "Wasn't that fun?"

Another long beat passed between them. She gave him no ground.

And he knew her better than that. Spike's eyes narrowed. "Buffy…"

_Yes._ That was it. There was no hiding from him now. Her façade of anger melted without struggle. She knew something had changed—they both did—even if what remained ambiguous. He'd unlocked a part of her they'd both nearly forgotten, a part essential to who she was.

A part without which she could not find herself.

Buffy knew it. She had to know it. For in seconds, the frown was gone completely, a warm smile in its place.

**TBC **


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

He should have figured she'd take to sparring like a duck to water, though with every swing of her fists, she unlocked a slew of memories and rekindled old stings his skin had somehow retained over three hundred years. Her mean right-hook, for example. Every time her knuckles smashed into his cheek, his bones would whimper and his joints would whine, and he'd have to remind himself why doing this was a good thing.

It didn't take much coaxing. Seeing her in action was all he needed.

"That's it!" he yelled, ducking a wild punch aimed at his jaw. "Just like old times, eh, Slayer?"

Buffy grunted and kicked his legs out from under him.

Spike barked a laugh, grinning up at her shining eyes. "Oooh, yeah," he purred. "You always liked it rough."

She rumbled another indignant huff, this one patently female. It was another in a long line of indicators that she was beginning to remember.

He flipped himself upright in an instant. "You missed this, didn't you?" he drawled, ducking another errant swing and repaying her with one of his own. He wouldn't pretend to not take pleasure in her surprised grunt, just as he wouldn't deny extending a hand to help her onto her feet. Her resentful glare earned an amused chuckle. "Pretend all you like, sweetheart, I know you better than that. Missed the dance, you did. Slayers need it jus' as bad as vamps." He pointed at her. "Don't think I didn't know about your nightly sprints through Sunnyhell that last year. Soldier boy din't cut it, and you needed a slay to work out the kinks."

Buffy's eyes flashed brilliantly and she swung at him again, landing a punch to his jaw that sent him soaring through the air and into the harsh, unforgiving side of a brick building. Still, Spike barely felt a thing. He rebounded with a gleeful leap, grinning ear-to-ear and motioning her forward.

"What's the hurt, love?" he demanded jovially. "Something I said?"

Bloody right it was. This was familiar. This was something she understood, even if she didn't know it.

And he was going to milk it for all it was worth.

The Slayer heaved another brutal swing; Spike caught this one in midair and used the leverage to deliver a kick to her lower back. Buffy panted and fell backward before nailing him with another cold glare. At last, he relented, shrugging. "Gotta take advantage of it while I can," he said, shrugging. "You'll be mopping the ground with my ass before too long."

Buffy's brows flickered upward and she ran at him again, leaping upward and smashing her foot against his face before he could blink. The ground beneath his feet vanished just as quickly, and in a flurry he was falling, crashing onto his back with a very smug slayer straddling his waist. It took a few seconds before the stars dancing around his head faded, even longer until darkness melted to light and he took in her smiling face. Her smile alone was worth the pain.

It was worth anything.

_Beautiful. _

"Yeah," Spike hissed, though with a grin. "Something like that."

There was nothing he could have done or said to make her look more superior in that instant, and again he found himself flashed back. This felt right. Buffy kicking his ass. Buffy looking particularly pleased with herself. Buffy smirking at him in victory.

_Oh yeah. _

He saw his hand migrate upward before he realized he meant to brush her hair from her eyes. "I love you," he murmured. The words felt familiar, too. Felt right. Felt more like a declaration than a reassurance. He'd loved her both blindly and with his eyes wide open. And though that was one thing he'd never forgotten, it still jolted him to remember how he'd made it this far.

A tender look fell over her features, the fire fading. It happened quickly but there was no mistaking the change, shining through in recognition without source or guidance. They remained that way for a long minute, Buffy just staring at him, trying to place her forgotten memories before softness melted into confusion. Her brow furrowed. She looked so close, then—within reach of an objective she couldn't identify. And it was all Spike could do to keep his big yap shut.

So close. _So close._

She knows who she is. 

"Buffy?" he whispered, then winced.

_Don't push. Don't push. Let her come to you. _

Whatever end she was approaching vanished on the breath of a hoarse, pained cry. Her features contorted in agony, her hands fisting clumps of her hair. It happened too quickly for him to grab her, and in an instant, Buffy had tumbled onto her side.

"Buffy!" he gasped, rolling onto his knees and grabbing her shoulders. "What is it?"

She whimpered and shook her head.

"Buffy…"

This scene was too familiar for comfort. In a flash he saw himself, centuries younger, standing at Drusilla's side; a stolen moment in which she was calm, if not lucid, one second and writhing in pain the next, her brain crushed with visions of things she only partly understood and only rarely conveyed. Oh yes, Spike knew this well…only he'd never known it with Buffy.

He had no idea what was happening to her, and that terrified him.

"It's okay," he whispered hurriedly, barely hearing himself. "It's okay."

It was over as quickly as it began, leaving eerie silence in its wake. The violent jerks fell to a confused calm; Buffy blinked at him blearily, as though refocusing his shape through blurs. She sat idle for several long seconds, then, as though nothing at all had happened, frowned, shook her head, and climbed back to her feet.

Every nerve in his body was on edge. "Buffy…"

Her frown deepened and she shook her head again, waving at him dismissively. And that was all there was to it. He could stop and stare and demand answers all he liked, but he wasn't going to receive any, and Buffy couldn't give them even if she wanted. So he had to stand aside and let her pass, not knowing what exactly had just happened or why. He played the silent role, and fuck if everyone didn't know how much that wasn't his strong-suit.

He needed to communicate with her beyond smiles and frowns, nods and shakes of the head.

He needed _words. _

But words he couldn't have.

Spike sighed heavily and cast a hand through his hair. "No," he said shortly, when she raised her fists again. "That's enough for today."

Buffy looked at him quizzically but relaxed her stance without quarrel.

There _were_ things she understood.

*~*~*

Spike walked her back to the warehouse that she'd made her home before returning solo to the streets. She hadn't wanted him to leave, and he hadn't particularly wanted to leave her, but he likewise knew how he responded when in a slayer's proximity after downing a bellyful of human blood. And he was hungry again—hungry for something that couldn't be sated with the blood of a two-day dead boar, especially after tasting the good stuff.

Vampires hungered for blood, sex, and violence. He was satisfying as many of those hungers as possible. Blood from the river, violence in the half-hearted spars in which he'd engaged Buffy—which was honestly more for her benefit than his—and sex…well…

_She's yours. _

Spike's jaw hardened, watching drops of red run between the cracks separating his fingers before his hands dipped into the river for another serving. _Wrong._ She wasn't his. Not like this…not in any state.

He was here to help her. If she needed intimacy, he would grant it…but he wouldn't take.

Even if it broke every natural code in his body, he wouldn't take.

"Not like you're not used to blue-balls, Spike," he mused before tossing back a mouthful. _Fuck._ Had human blood always tasted this good? He couldn't remember. He'd been muzzled back then, reliant on animals and whatever else he could finagle from resident demons around town. On occasion, Willy would get in the real good stuff, but the bartender always knew how to price his merchandise, thus Spike rarely got a sample. Likewise, Harmony had snagged a few bags off hospital delivery trucks from time to time but, more often than not, he'd relied on what was bagged and sold in butcher shops, and the butcher's he'd met hadn't specialized in human.

If he and Buffy ever got back to Sunnydale, he supposed he'd have to wean himself off the good stuff. The Slayer wouldn't take kindly to him munching on the townspeople.

Spike licked his lips, dipping his hands back into the river for another helping. The chip hadn't fired once. Not bloody once. It was something he hadn't noticed right off, but it was hard to ignore after Buffy's painful reminder. She'd never been the one clutching her head and screaming—that had always been his role. And though his memory was fuzzy, it was loads better now than it had been when he first stepped into her strange, terrible world. He remembered the chip very well—too well—and he needed no reminders of how it worked.

_Humans get hurt by Spike's hand, and Spike gets a migraine. _

In the grand scheme of things, he supposed the chip didn't matter one way or another. Not to him, at least. He'd lived by the chip's rule before and he would again, if it was what Buffy wanted. Time in Hell might change her perception, but he couldn't see her taking a liking to the thought of him running around unleashed. There were always alternatives, though, and Spike was accustomed to jumping through her hoops. He knew he could school himself. He knew the difference between right and wrong—_her_ right and wrong—and he would be whatever she needed him to be. Chip or no chip.

Spike sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rising to full height. "Reckon the sodding chip fell right outta my skull," he murmured before wincing at the thought.

It seemed possible, given the shape he'd been in. His body depleted, his muscles black and rotting…perhaps his bones themselves had been weathered, grown thin in areas to allow a synthetic thing to simply fall away. Or maybe it had happened before then—before the three hundred years of imprisonment. After all, he had dived willingly into a pool of holy water. There was no telling how much of him had melted away before he'd regenerated.

He might have been without the chip since the first trial without knowing it.

At the moment, though, he supposed it didn't matter. Buffy didn't know anything about the chip, and it was something he couldn't convey intelligibly. He'd worry about it when the time came. For now, there was nothing to do but turn on his heel and set off for their home. Their _temporary_ home. The place where she lived.

"Right," Spike muttered dryly, kicking at the gravel. "The place she's lived a thousand bloody years. Don't get more temporary than that."

Everything in her world was harsh. The red lake. The orange sky. The burnt, crimson ground. She'd done a number on herself without even trying.

And she was waiting for him.

Spike sighed again and fixed his eyes on the buildings ahead. She hadn't asked him to touch her since the night they showered together, and when he took her back to the building tomorrow to wash up again, he suspected she would want a repeat performance. He wanted one, too. He wanted one so badly. All he needed was an excuse. One tiny little indication that she craved his hands on her, and he was bloody done for. The way her body pulsed around his fingers, the way her pussy clenched and pulled him in…he was a goner. He wanted to feel her, taste her, memorize her every little whimper to play over and over on his inner soundtrack.

He needed closeness. He needed release.

He needed her.

_I need a bloody wank. _

A soft snicker wheezed through his lips. It was a simple solution with little payoff, save the obvious. While touching himself would take off the edge, it would similarly do little to relieve the burn he felt. Still, some help was better than none; he'd just have to find a free moment in which to rediscover his body. Not that Spike had forgotten how the piping worked; rather he'd only recently begun to think of himself as a sexual being again. He remembered ecstasy but nothing specific. Pleasure was a foreign entity, and he wanted to relearn it.

It wouldn't be easy. Not with Buffy stapled to his side. He supposed he could sneak off into an abandoned warehouse and have a go at it, but he didn't want to leave her longer than needed. Blood was essential; masturbation was not. He'd find time.

Though sooner was definitely preferable to later, before he busted a nut.

*~*~*

Spike stopped short of the doorway before she could sense him. The sight had taken him by surprise; he'd never seen her study the marks on the walls before. Ever since inviting him into her home, she'd been rather indifferent to his fear and curiosity, which he supposed was fair. After all, she had put them there and lived with them for God-knows-how-long. It was no small wonder she didn't find them remarkable.

Only, for whatever reason, she did now. Buffy was staring at the walls, her expression troubled and her arms crossed. It was a look he knew well. He'd watched her mull things over more times than he could count, trying to unravel the unknown and form hypotheses only she could piece together. She'd managed to work up some truly brilliant plans when she wore that look, and though everything was different now, Spike was struck again with the feeling that, somehow, nothing had changed.

The notion was ridiculous and romantic, and he knew better than to be fooled by a look he recognized.

For her part, she didn't give any indication she knew he was near. Her attention was totally claimed. Buffy licked her lips and shifted closer to the walls, her eyes following the years-old cuts her hands had made. She remained like that for some time, startling him when she moved, when she raised a hand to trace her work.

He was mesmerized. He wanted to go to her, to experience whatever she was experiencing at her side, but he couldn't budge. He couldn't tear himself away. Not when she moved like a ghost—like something out of both their imaginations. There was no hesitation as she explored; her finger never halted, never broke contact. She knew the marks well. Her strokes were fluid and confident, even if she didn't rush herself. She traced one senseless symbol and followed it with another, her frown deepening and her eyes boring hard in concentration.

This was the brink of an epiphany. There was no mistaking it. No way could it be anything else. The look on her face was unquestionable…she just hadn't made it to the point of realization. To the place she was fast approaching.

_She remembers. _

Fuck, he couldn't help himself—he was too excited to try. "You know what it means?" he demanded, surprising her enough to make her jump…

And that was it. The spell was over, snapped in half and cast aside. He'd scared her out of her concentration, stealing a gasp off her lips and chasing away the determination in her eyes until there was nothing but uncertainty. And that was gone just as rapidly. He saw it coming before she did.

Spike's face fell as his stomach dropped.

_Wait…_

"Buffy!"

He was at her side before she fell, catching her swiftly as the first wave came crashing down. Her hands flew to her head, harsh whimpers tearing through her lips. It came at her again and again—pain from nowhere, pain he couldn't see and didn't know how to stop. Forget what he'd thought before—this was _nothing_ like Drusilla's visions. At least then he'd had an idea of what to do. Hold her, demand what she'd seen and try to find a way to appease the vision…or stop it, whichever Dru thought was better. Visions were bloody easy; whatever this was, whatever Buffy saw, provided no trail to follow. She hadn't the words to tell him what was wrong, and he had no sodding clue how to help.

All he could do was hold her.

"It's all right," he murmured into her hair, hating himself.

She mewled pitifully and buried her face in his shoulder. Her body tensed and shuddered.

And he'd never felt more helpless in his life.

Spike shivered, sliding his arms under her legs and hoisting her off her feet. "It's all right," he said again, even though he knew it wasn't. "I've got you, kitten."

Her breaths rocked against his shoulder, ricocheting hard through her body. And every whisper twisted his heart. God, he hated this. He had no sodding clue what it was, but he hated it. There was no feeling worse in the world than not knowing how to relieve the pain of the one loved most. Holding her provided empty comfort—whatever she saw, whatever she _had_ seen, remained with her long after the pain faded into memory. He had nothing to offer. No reassurances to whisper into her hair. This was something else—a whole new element introduced into a world where nothing had a simple explanation.

Spike carried her over to the place where they slept, sinking to his knees. "I don't know," he whispered, rocking her gently. It was the best he could offer. The truth often was. "I don't know. I'm so sorry, Buffy, I just don't know."

She sniffled but didn't look up. And they remained that way long after the tremors subsided and the agonized whimpers faded into silence. She clung to him as she had the first night, as she had when she worried he would disappear.

"I'm here. It's all right. Spike's got you."

Buffy trembled, her nails digging into his arms. Nothing could pry her face away from his shoulder. She was rigid in his hold.

The world around her was blacker than darkness. She was safer with her eyes closed.

*~*~*

_A dream. This has to be a dream. _

Nothing else made sense. Buffy was in his arms. She'd fallen asleep just minutes after the pain subsided. This was fact. Buffy was in his arms. She was _not_ standing at the walls. She was _not._

This has to be a bloody dream. 

Yet he felt wide awake.

She was carving. Her back was to him, blood streaming down her arm from where the glass dug into her palm, but she was definitely there. More than a shadow or a whisper of something in his head, Buffy was grunting and gutting word after word. They were words he ought to know but couldn't decipher. Words that meant something to her. Words he needed to read. Words he couldn't see.

_She's not there. _

Glass dug into plaster. He smelled the dust. Smelled her blood. The air was thick with her tears. It was too real to be a dream.

But it had to be a dream. It had to be.

_Maybe my mind's going. Surprised I managed this long. How long did I last? _

Buffy sniffed and shifted against his chest. Buffy scratched and dug against the wall.

_A dream. _

He'd never experienced a dream that felt this real.

Hours could have passed and he wouldn't notice. He watched her work. Watched her move, watched her carve words that had no meaning. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Spike remained in shadows, holding a sleeping Buffy to his chest as a phantom with her face added to the horror of her opus.

He had no idea how much time passed before the writing stopped. When she was finished, Buffy turned to stare at him, and only then did he understand. How was another matter; she was trying to show him something. The girl in his arms and the girl standing before him were the same. They existed together. He didn't know how—he just knew. She was trying to show him something.

She was showing him the walls. She was showing him what was written. Somehow she was showing him.

It came down to one word. She'd bled to write one word. And as Buffy's phantom faded into darkness, the lines of her scribbles began to bend. The unintelligible writing took form, stretched beyond the mechanics of reality, twisted, turned, and became something else.

Every fiber in Spike's body numbed.

The word on the wall was a name.

The name on the wall was his.

**TBC**


	21. Chapter 21

**DISCLAIMER: This chapter contains adult content. Please proceed with caution**

**A/N**: Dedicating this chapter to **dampersnspoons**, who has kept me busy (and horny) at work. Thank you so much for sending me your stories.

Thanks so much to all my readers. You guys have been so wonderful and patient. I'll have to think of a way to reward you…

And, as always, thanks to my wonderful betas.

**Chapter Twenty-one**

Morning chased away the shadows night had cast, leaving him with no evidence of what he'd seen. The name was gone, twisted again into a foreign form of hieroglyphics. Spike truly hadn't expected anything else. What had happened hadn't been based in reality—not his and not even Buffy's. It was something _beyond_ reality, and while he didn't understand exactly what he'd seen, he wasn't daft enough to minimize its significance.

Buffy was trying to tell him something. She didn't know how or what, but she was trying to tell him something. And last night, even asleep in his arms, she had. She'd spoken.

Without words or direction, she'd spoken.

Spike sighed, his eyes drifting from the walls to the sleeping wonder in his arms. She hadn't made a sound all night, at least none loud enough to penetrate the thick fog of sleep which had blurred his senses and scoffed at his meager attempts to resist. Sleep was a luxury he had long taken for granted; it had been a necessity in the cave—a way to escape the ghosts and the long endless hours between centuries. When he slept now, they were hard, dreamless sleeps. No visits from phantoms, no faux-Buffy waiting within his mind, nothing but deep, relentless darkness, and for that he was grateful.

He wondered if Buffy dreamt at all. He wondered what she saw. If anything, her dreams since his arrival were likely a confusing collage of images. Perhaps that was what had beaten on her worn brain the day before. Images of a life she'd forgotten, awakened by a face lost in time.

Fuck, he hoped so. The list of alternatives was too bloody daunting. Buffy had already proved impervious to aging…but she was still human. In this twisted, horrid place where she had never died, she remained fragile and breakable even under layers of fortified slayer muscle. There was no telling what he'd brought with him from the outside. What her cells had forgotten how to fight.

That was the most terrifying possibility, and, he told himself, likewise the least probable. There were a million things a place like this could do to the human mind. A million horrible things.

Things he truly didn't wish to consider, but couldn't help but play over and over. It was easier when he focused on the walls.

Christ, he was so sodding sick of _worrying. _

One thing at a time was likely the easiest way to get through the day, and carnal concerns were more pleasant, if not agonizing, to entertain. He'd already decided to take her back to the warehouse where they had washed off a few days back, which meant atop everything else, the day would be another trial on his restraint. However, they were both well past due for another shower, and he knew she wouldn't go unless he took her.

Spike sighed and shook his head, tenderly lifting Buffy's arm from where it was thrown across his chest. Might be better if he had that wank he'd promised himself yesterday. Ease the tension, get his mind off things—if only for a minute—and take the burn off what promised to be an excruciating day.

_Touching her… _

Another hard breath trembled through his body and, as quietly as he could, he managed to untangle himself from her arms and retreat into a secluded corner.

It had been ages since he first stole off for a wank. He'd been under his mum's roof then, perplexed by his body and horny as fuck. The stiffy in his trousers had been a consistent condition for some time, but never had he thought of doing anything about it…not until he discovered how bloody good it felt. Of course, at the time, he'd been all prim and proper and horrified with himself, but that didn't stop him from doing it three times a day, perhaps twice once he hit twenty.

Spike snickered softly and shook his head as he lowered his zipper. The last year above ground, the year Buffy jumped, he'd relied on his hand every sodding night, with or without Harmony beside him. No amount of release could ease the burn. He could pull his dick until it broke and he'd still ache for more. Every night, every _fucking night_…all for the want of Buffy.

Nothing much had changed—not where she was concerned. Only now he knew how she smelled when she came. He knew the sounds she made, how her eyes grew distant and hazy, how she gasped and clung and responded so wildly he could barely keep her in his arms. This was a world where Buffy was truly with him, even if she couldn't understand what he did to her or how deeply it affected him. He had her now…and he couldn't touch her as he wanted.

Fucking conscience. Three hundred years could erode a man completely, but the understanding of _right and wrong_ hadn't faded. It wasn't supposed to be there at all yet it refused to go away.

And if he was completely honest with himself, he didn't _want_ it to go away. There was something undeniably heady in knowing he was doing right by her. In giving her what she wanted, what she needed, without taking anything for himself. It was the _right_ thing to do.

Spike sighed, his eyes falling on the blonde angel sleeping so peacefully on the makeshift cot. Fuck, he hoped it was the right thing. It was all he could give.

But he wasn't a bloody saint. He needed intimacy, too. He'd needed it for a long time, and if his hand was all he could get, he'd take it. Made sense it was better to touch her with a load shot rather than a cannon ready to fire.

"Like riding a bicycle," Spike murmured. It was strange the way memories worked. How some things felt so natural, whereas others had to be relearned. The steely cool flesh against his left palm felt natural. Cradling his swelling cock felt natural. Fixing his mind on Buffy felt natural and—even though he'd never before had the chance to have off when within viewing range—watching her sleep, staring at the gentle rise and fall of her breasts as he stroked himself felt…_right. _

And the sounds in his ears…those felt right, too. The whimpers, the sighs, the memory of her scent, the way she'd flexed around his fingers, her slippery flesh drawing him deeper, _oh yes,_ deeper into her body. Her pussy clamping hard around him, every muscle tensing before she finally spiraled into orgasm. Her feminine juices on his skin, her body trembling against his. Yes, _God_ yes, that felt right. It felt so fucking right. And he'd have it again. Again and again, if she asked him. Buffy pressed hard against him, clutching at him as he stroked her clitoris and thrust his fingers into her.

An image of her pressed against the shower wall, holding his face to her pussy struck him from nowhere. Spike gasped, head careening back, hand furiously pumping his cock. If he concentrated hard enough, he could taste her. Feel her vaginal lips caressing his mouth, feel her silken flesh against his tongue, and feel her slippery clit between his lips.

She felt so good, so warm, so _his…_

Her scent was too strong to be an illusion. Spike's eyes flew open, locking on hers. There was no telling how long she'd been standing there watching him, and while warning bells immediately chimed, stopping was not an option. His body sizzled and sparked, his jaw tightening, his gaze steadying on her face, fist stroking his cock harder, faster. She was so close—_so close_—and he couldn't stop.

"_Buffy…"_

She didn't make a sound. Her eyes were fixed on his penis.

"Buffy…_Buffy_…sorry, love. I can't…I need…"

If she heard him, she gave no indication. Her tongue took a sultry swipe of her lower lip, curious eyes wide and hungry, and Spike nearly came undone.

"Yes. Like that. Feel you, pet. Holding me. Touching me. Sucking me. Wanna feel you suck me so bad. Your mouth…your tongue…your…_Buffy." _

She inhaled sharply and closed another step between them. Now he could feel the heat rolling off her skin, hear the pounding of her heart, taste air thickened with the heady aroma of her arousal. Oh Christ, _this was turning her on._ Watching him pump his prick, watching him moan and gasp, watching his muscles flex as his blood began to burn, watching him as he grew closer…_closer_… He felt every beat of her body, he felt _everything._ Everything. Rich slayer honey rushed between her legs, and he felt it. He could nearly taste it. She was hot and he burned. He couldn't stop. God help him, he didn't want to stop.

"Slayer…"

She took a step forward, and every nerve in his body jumped.

"No!" Spike panted, pulling at himself furiously. "Stay there!"

The words meant nothing. Buffy took another step, and another. She was so close, and he couldn't take it. Watching her watch him, drinking in her eyes, her fucking _closeness_…it did him in. Fireworks blazing across his skin, Spike tossed his head back, shuddered, and came for the first time in three centuries. And this, _this_ was something he _had_ forgotten. The aching fulfillment that came from pleasure, the way his body tensed and unwound. He'd forgotten this. It was _wonderful_…wonderful, terrifying, confusing as hell, and _his._ This moment was entirely his. Buffy watching, his hand jerking, his body trembling…it was all his.

_All mine. _

The post-coital slump, however, didn't get a chance to set in. Reality pushed at the doors of fantasy, shoving inside and bringing all its consequences with it. Yes, he'd just masturbated in front of Buffy. Yes, he had known she was there. No, he hadn't tried to send her away. No, there was no way this was _all right,_ even by his standards. He'd taken advantage of her. He'd let it go too far. He'd allowed himself…allowed _her…_

And that wasn't even the worst of it. It took opening his eyes and realizing he'd sprayed his spendings on Buffy's hands and stomach before he remembered he was supposed to catch it. And immediately, bliss was shoved aside for shame and horror. "Fuck! Pet, I'm sorry. I—"

Buffy didn't hear a word he said. Instead, she frowned and swiped a drop of his semen onto her forefinger.

"I din't mean to, sweetheart, I…"

Her nose wrinkled, and before he realized her intentions, the finger disappeared inside into her mouth.

Spike's jaw hit the floor. "Buffy—oh…oh God…"

She made a face and shook her head, and while the look didn't inspire confidence, there was nothing to suggest she hated the taste. He couldn't, however, imagine her thinking the flavor was anything near enjoyable. Not that it mattered. Reality was cold and barren; it left him standing in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse, hardening cock in his hand and Buffy standing bewildered in front of him, soiled with his spendings. And she didn't know what had happened, or what it meant. She didn't know anything but the look on his face and her name on his lips. She didn't know how much seeing her lick his come off her fingers turned him on. She didn't know how deeply things affected him.

Nor could she. Not like this.

"Let's go, love," Spike murmured, tucking his erection back inside his jeans and zipping the fly shut with a hiss. "Get cleaned up."

Her eyes remained locked on his crotch, which only made his predicament worse. Buffy noticing him as a man would be the end of his restraint. The leash he'd wrapped around himself was short enough, and with her smiling and warm and receptive, it could break under a hard glance. The line he walked was bloody fine, but it was working for them…it _had_ been working for them. Up until now, she'd been nothing but quaint and curious, and he couldn't let her curiosity blossom. Things had to stay the way they were. They _had_ to.

No matter what.

*~*~*

It took listening for the whispers to notice them anymore. Strange how a few days could alter one's perception. When he'd arrived they had driven him nutty within the first few minutes of crossing the city barrier; now he barely heard them. They were always there, however. Always. Faceless voices following them no matter where they went, chasing them around corners and nipping at their heels with every turn. Today, however, noticing the ghosts didn't bother him. It was better than the gaping silence.

He missed the days when he could accuse Buffy of not being chatty. Words were entirely reliant upon him now, and he had none. His mind kept flashing back to the forbidden moments in the warehouse. The bliss he shouldn't have felt, the touches he shouldn't have stolen, and the urgent drive for a repeat performance. His cock was still stone-hard and given that his thoughts kept drifting to a wet, naked, dripping Buffy, he didn't expect that to change anytime soon. The fact that her arousal was still thick and potent didn't help matters, either.

Spike sighed heavily, mind searching for something to ramble about. A thousand bloody topics in the universe and he couldn't think of anything but her quim strangling him into oblivion. After so many years of pain and misery, his mind was intoxicated by the promise of something…of _something…_

"What do you suppose your chums are up to?" he asked randomly, then cringed. The last thing he wanted to discuss was her friends, but it was better than nothing. It'd provide a distraction at the very least. "Last I saw them, they…" His eyes darkened. That memory didn't rest well with him. "Well, they'd given up on me. Harris had, at least. 'Course, that could've been a parlor trick an' I wouldn't've known the bloody difference. Larry wanted me to toss it in, see. I was in the cave for so long I forgot everything except you, and that was the last thing. He showed me what had happened while I rotted away. How they didn't think I was trying anymore, when I'd waited so bloody long to…" Spike broke off and shook his head, irritated with himself for caring. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen it coming. Alliances with the enemy never ended well, at least in his case…though he supposed his first truce with Buffy was what had carried him this far. There was always an exception that proved the rule.

"I thought it might be different now," he continued softly, hardly aware he was speaking at all. "Fuck, I'm thick. But they were treating me different in the end. Your watcher might never have taken a liking to me, but I thought I at least had his respect. An' the witches…they both were so warm. Even Anya. I think I remember her speaking a piece to Harris around the dinner table right before I left. Mind might be going, though…so much time has passed…" Spike lifted his head, eyes fixing on their destination. It might not be the only building in Hell with a shower, but he didn't particularly care to look around unless it became necessary. "But it hasn't for them, has it? Bet they've barely moved since what I saw. That'd be right, wouldn't it? A day there is a hundred sodding years here. They're probably still chattin' around the table, talking about how incompetent I am an' how they better get their shit together so they can rescue you themselves." He barked a laugh. "Right. Love to see that. Whatever Larry'd throw at them for the first trial…mine was holy water. Figure for humans it'd be acid, don't you? Somethin' compatible at the very least. Think Xander could stomach it? Think…"

The tirade ended before it truly began, the words bitten off as he forced his anger aside. There was no point in getting worked up over what he couldn't control. The Scoobies would do what they would and fuck the rest. He couldn't warn them, couldn't stop them, couldn't do much of anything other than what he was doing. As it was, he wasn't sure any of it would make a lick of difference. Hope was in short supply; while he was determined to make their escape before any outside action could take place, the idealist inside had been poisoned by reason. There were no guarantees—no absolutes. Buffy had changed, possibly forever, and their one exit had vanished overnight. He would never concede defeat—defeat was a word Spike had yet to learn—but he couldn't pretend to be the hero anymore. He had to be realistic. There might never be an escape. He and Buffy might spend eternity within the confines of her imagination's worst nightmare—always looking, always fighting—but remaining here forever.

It was a bleak but distinct possibility.

"No use cryin' about that now," Spike murmured, squeezing Buffy's hand and guiding her over the threshold. "Remember the way, ducks?"

She met his eyes with a hesitant smile, and when he didn't move, she took the lead. The familiar twists and turns were known to her now, and by the time they reached the bathroom, her expression was so damn hopeful it was miraculous he didn't combust in adoration. "That's right," he assured her. "Now…arms up."

Spike made quick work of her clothing. He figured the less time he gave his eyes to appreciate her naked form the less trouble he'd be in. However, with the way Buffy tugged his shirt over his head before practically tearing his jeans off his body, there was every chance he was wrong. Her eagerness fed into desire, reviving his now-softened cock with lust that hadn't truly faded.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he decided, shaking his head. His erection practically leapt out of his fly, straining toward her eager, curious fingers, and he had to stop her before her skin met his. If she touched him, if he felt her hands on him, he feared he'd lose what was left of his restraint.

There was only so much a man could take.

"No," Spike whispered raggedly, shaking his head. "No, sweetheart. Let's just wash up, yeah? In an' out."

The look in her eyes told him plainly that wasn't going to work. Good. He didn't want anything quick and simple; his hands ached for her flesh, his fingers yearned to caress her center, his mouth…he wanted to touch her everywhere, wanted to press kisses across every inch of her body. She wanted what he wanted—she wanted closeness. She wanted intimacy. She wanted it now.

His eyes fell to the nest of curls between her thighs, his tongue massaging his lips. "You're so beautiful," he whispered, gaze dragging up her body at a snail's pace. "Every part of you, Slayer. So beautiful." He shivered and shook his head, nodding at the shower. "Better get on with it. Twist the nozzle, pet."

Buffy was already far ahead of him. Hard water beat down from the showerhead, neither warm nor cold, and he barely felt a thing.

He couldn't stop staring.

"Hope you appreciate this when you remember," he murmured, absently reaching for the bar of soap. The words were empty and ridiculous; he only spoke to fill the silence as he lathered his hands and did his best to remain calm, despite the fact that she was wet, naked, and in his arms. That if he angled his hips just right, pushed her against the wall and spread her thighs, he would be wrapped in paradise. "There now…doesn't that feel better?"

Buffy licked her lips, her eyes dropping to his erection. She indicated his hand and made a gesture he couldn't possibly confuse but managed to ignore all the same.

She wanted to be touched. He wanted to touch her. He'd told himself he would whenever she asked.

But after what had happened this morning, could he really trust himself?

_Think of something else…now. _

Not fucking possible.

"You're so soft," Spike heard himself saying, eyes glued to the path his hands took. He watched himself wash her arms and shoulders, felt himself rub her palms. He saw her face covered in soap suds, but nothing registered…not until he had a breast cradled in each hand. She was so small—so far from the woman who'd occupied his fantasies above ground. Buffy had always been a tiny slip of a girl, but here she was malnourished, skin barely clinging to her bones, and she was still the loveliest thing he'd ever seen.

His cock ached. So did his fangs.

This was going to be his undoing.

"So soft," he whispered again, thumbing her nipples absently, which did little to sate the desire to wrap his lips around her. "You were always soft, weren't you? Bloody well bewitched me. How anyone could be so hard on the inside…but stay so soft?" A long whimper scratched at his throat. "I want you so much, Buffy. So much."

She moaned and crooned against him. Her hand reached blindly for his cock, but he batted her away before her fingers had a chance to whisper across his skin. "Ah, ah," he scolded softly. "What did I tell you, hmm?"

"Ahhh…"

Spike shook his head and shifted so he was on his knees. "Almost done, sweetheart," he told her. "Then we can wash your hair an'—"

Buffy mewled again and thrust her hips forward, and a wave of pure slayer arousal crashed against his nostrils. The last of his feeble resistance melted away. _Don't deny the girl, _he'd told himself. And he wouldn't. She wanted something she couldn't name, and he'd promised her—promised himself—he'd give it to her.

"God help me," Spike murmured. His tongue plunged inside her before he could help himself, and everything else ceased to matter.

There was no sense looking back—he was lost on first taste, a fucking goner. _Ta, Spike._ Years of yearning, craving, months of trailing her helplessly around the cemeteries hoping she'd notice him, watching her jump and fall…fall…only to be here now. Her fingers roamed across his scalp, twisted in his hair and did their best to pull him in deeper. He needed no guidance—God, he'd crawl inside her if she let him. This was everything—_this_ was what he'd imagined when he came. Buffy in the shower, weeping in pleasure as his mouth feasted on her pussy. The world around him vanished—everything vanished, save the warm slayer nectar on his tongue, the way her feminine folds caressed his mouth, how sweetly she moaned and flexed around him. He had dined with kings and queens, he'd sampled blood from royalty and ancient nobility, but nothing in the world could compare to this. To slurping hungrily at the Slayer's quim, holding her flat against the shower wall as his tongue delved and explored. She was wholly woman here.

He'd wanted this for so long.

"You're divine," he whispered against her vaginal lips, tongue lapping at her clit. "My golden goddess."

He knew it wouldn't be her _real_ eyes that found him when they opened again, but for a few seconds he could pretend. She gasped and clawed and thrust her hips against his mouth, wordlessly pleading for more, which he gave without stint. She wanted to be lost as much as he wanted to be found, and for a few wonderful minutes, they fell together. Spike devoured her, tongue lapping her opening as his fingers strummed her clit. He watched her through half-hooded eyes, not daft enough to believe in miracles, but, just for the moment, pretending they existed.

Pretending Buffy would be Buffy when she came down.

The sounds she made, the way her body jerked, the wild look of abandon that flirted with her face…yes, he could pretend.

When his lips wrapped around her clit and tugged, it was over. Buffy tensed, panted harshly, and spasmed hard, jerking, gasping, hands searching for support but finding nothing to grasp. It didn't matter—he was there to catch her, there to hold her as her body came undone. He watched greedily, breaths nearly as harsh as hers, tongue still worshipping her clit as two fingers slid inside her quim to enjoy the way she tightened and strangled him to new life. She was bloody beautiful when she came.

She was his fountain, and he drank.

And she was still gone when she opened her eyes.

*~*~*

Something changed that night.

The rest of the day had passed uneventfully. No sparring. No visiting the blood river. No mysterious migraines. No phantom slayers carving names. After washing up and drying off, Spike walked Buffy back to the warehouse while prattling on endlessly about a variety of inane things. The journey, their plans for the following days, the sodding weather, anything he could muster to keep his mouth active. Once they arrived home, however, the need to chatter died, and he found himself, for no particular reason, watching the markings on the walls.

Nothing came of it, of course. The lines weren't going to shift and suddenly make sense, though after what had happened last night, he felt anything was possible. Whether or not the incident was real…though it had to be, because dreams didn't feel like that, and he'd had enough realistic dreams to be an authority.

He didn't know. Christ, he didn't know anything anymore.

Ultimately, day faded to night, and before he realized it, he was tucking Buffy into bed.

His sleeping angel. His fallen slayer.

Perhaps this was it. Understanding had finally dawned after three hundred years. This was Hell. Stuck infinitely in the middle of a puzzle he couldn't solve with the woman he loved but couldn't have. Trapped inside a Victorian conscience that shouldn't exist, talking to himself because she couldn't talk back. A few more days of this and his mind would start to go.

And he preferred this to home. He preferred having Buffy like this to not at all. Give him eternity touching what he couldn't feel, an eternity of torment, an eternity of dishing out every hellish alternative to the world he'd left behind and God help him, he wouldn't complain. He didn't like it, but here, at least, he could feasibly be happy. There were no gravestones in Hell. In Hell, Buffy was in his arms and not in the ground.

She was with him.

_She's nowhere near you. _

He'd thought he was getting close to something, he truly had. But what Hell giveth, Hell taketh away. He was no closer than he'd been from the moment he fell into the river.

But Buffy was in his arms, sleeping, and for that he was grateful.

For that he would thank God every night, even if he didn't believe. Even if prayers in Hell were never answered.

For even though it tortured him, he could still hold her here. She would lie in his arms and sleep, and he could hold her because she was here.

_She's gone. _

Something changed that night.

*~*~*

"Spike…Spike…"

Spike's eyes fought open, blinded at first by darkness. He blinked, puzzled, and took a quick look around the room to find what might have roused him from his slumber. There was nothing. The air was still, the walls unchanged, and Buffy was snuggled in his arms, sleeping soundly. He was alone.

"_Spike…"_

No. Not alone. _Not alone._ Buffy was with him.

It took a few seconds for realization to slice through stupor. Spike's head whipped to his girl, hope crackling but doused just as quickly by jaded realism. He hadn't heard anything—he'd heard a wish, nothing more.

But he saw her this time. He watched her lips move, and heard the sound they made plain as day.

"_Spike…I can't…Spike…"_

A blinding white charge speared through his veins. Shocks of electricity sparked off his fingertips. Spike's mouth fell open but he couldn't find his voice. He wanted to move but had forgotten how. If his heart hadn't already been dead it would have stopped at the sound.

She knew his name.

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N** Thanks to Megan, Mari, and Tami for the incredibly quick turnaround. As promised, without FULL BETA APPROVAL, here is Chapter 22. I'll make an announcement when a fully betaed chapter is available…until then, however, you'll have to live with my mistakes.

Thanks so much to everyone who voted for this and my other stories at The Spuffy Awards. You guys are awesome!!!

**Chapter Twenty-two **

A lifetime could have passed before he moved and he wouldn't have noticed. Fuck, he wouldn't have _cared._ Nothing in the whole bloody universe could begin to compare to the harmonious ring of his name rolling off her lips. It had been too long, too bloody long since he heard her voice. She'd spoken, sure, but her words were fragmented—more sounds than anything else; she mimicked what she heard without saying a goddamn thing.

It was how she'd lived, as a shadow of herself.

"Buffy," Spike whispered, rolling onto his side and gently shaking her shoulder. "Oh God. Buffy, love, can you hear me?"

Her brow furrowed as though burying herself further inside her dream. But the words came again, and he lived on her every breath. "Spike…I…"

"What?" he demanded hurriedly. "What is it? I'm right here, kitten. Right here."

This was really happening. Oh God, this was really happening. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Time gripped and pulled, dragging him through a sea of memories he didn't care to relive. Moving from the second he watched her take the fateful dive off the Tower, falling until her body crackled and disappeared inside a vortex into which he could not follow. The agonizing days after that…running to the Summers' home every night, demanding answers no one had and living under the hard, judgmental stares of people who didn't understand him. The not knowing—the _not knowing._ Christ, that had killed him. Assaulted with nightmares of where she was, what horrors she faced, how she'd be when he found her, and dreading the moment he found out.

Then it was into the rabbit hole. Three trials of torture, temptation, and dedication. Diving into a pool of holy water with only hope that he'd pull himself out on the other side. Waking up to the eyes of a demon wearing Buffy's face, offering him Buffy's body and appealing to a side of his nature that could no longer be enticed through tricks or flattery. And then the long, cold centuries of waiting—waiting without knowing what lay ahead, without knowing what he would find, or even if surviving the trial would mean a damn in a world without rules.

Now he was with her, and for the first time in generations, her voice was hers.

A long moan whistled through Buffy's lips, her body tightening with resistance. "No, no, please. Don't…_no!" _

His heart leapt into his throat. "Buffy!

"No! Please!"

Her eyes shot open and everything else fell away. The air split apart with the weight of her scream, her hands fisting her hair and tugging so hard he was certain she would rip her scalp apart. Joints jerked, twisted and locked, hard tremors coursing across her small form and rendering her a sobbing mess, and he didn't know what to do. He was caught between worlds and he couldn't help her. He couldn't help.

She'd been Buffy for just a second. Just a second.

And it was killing her.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, not knowing why or what for, but it was the only thing to say. "Buffy…"

She hissed and whimpered, curling into a ball.

"I've got you, baby." He flattened himself against her back, wrapping his arm around her waist and anchoring her against his body. "I've got you."

There was no telling how much time passed before the tremors stopped—before her cries softened into gasps as the earthquake claiming her insides began to calm. Then there was nothing but quiet. He didn't ask if she knew him, didn't ask if she was all right, didn't say a damn thing because he knew every answer to every possible question.

The shade of Buffy had been scared away. But she'd been here. _She'd been here. _Right here in his arms.

He felt so close to something he couldn't name. Something he barely believed. Something he feared was entirely in his head.

But there were certain things that couldn't be imagined. She'd been here.

Buffy had been here.

He just had to find her again.

*~*~*

It had taken a half hour or so, but Buffy had managed to find sleep again. Spike hadn't had the same fortune. The night ticked by in quiet solitude, holding her to his chest and tenderly caressing her face, replaying their hours together over and over in search of something else he could have done. Some other thing he could have said, another way he could have touched her or encouraged her to break completely through the surface. Something…_anything…_

He'd lost track of the days. It seemed like it should have happened already—Buffy awaking, Buffy remembering herself. But there was no time-table for these things, and if there were he'd barely started the wait. How long did it take, after all, to reclaim an entire lifetime after having lived it a thousand times over?

Much longer than this.

But his Buffy was a fighter. She could accomplish anything, and she wanted out. She was pounding on the walls of her prison. She wanted out.

Last night had given him that if nothing else.

Spike sighed heavily and glanced down. He'd left Buffy's side a little more than an hour ago, needing a reprieve but similarly unwilling to go far without her. He sat just outside the warehouse, studying the fingernails that used to be chipped with black polish while his mind spiraled a mile a minute. The day before had been the best one he'd had in all his years. Waking with Buffy in his arms, sharing a moment of perfect intimacy with her, even if his actions had crossed into the murky shadow area between right and wrong. Sharing the day with her, touching her, rolling her clit between his lips and bathing his tongue with her juice, and again getting the privilege of holding her as she slept.

Then he'd experienced hope, true hope, for the first time since watching her fall. It might be ages before she managed to break through completely, but he knew now, with absolute certainty, that it was possible. He knew he would speak with Buffy again someday. The eyes he looked into would be her eyes. When he touched her, she would know him.

It might not happen for a while, but it would happen. There was no doubt.

He just hoped he knew how to talk with her when she was with him again. What was there to say to someone who had been lost for a thousand years? _It's all right. I know how you feel. You can talk to me. _

Bollocks.

He sighed again and ran his hands through his hair. What he wouldn't do for a fag and a beer right about now. He wouldn't turn down a mouthful of blooming onion from the Bronze or a bite of spicy buffalo wings, either. Something that made him feel normal. Alive, or something like it. Like the life he was in was the one he was supposed to live. Like he was real.

He couldn't switch off the feeling that he'd struck it lucky in the past. Caring for Dru had been different—she'd been sick and weak and receptive to all the attention he'd so willingly given her. But Buffy wasn't weak or sick, and this world was no angry mob.

He could help her, but how much? Aside from holding her hand and filling her head with promises he couldn't guarantee would come to fruition.

And then there was the matter of getting out. Awaking Buffy before he had an idea of how to leave this world might drive the final nail through the coffin. Give her back her life only to take it away again.

She might never forgive him for ripping her sanctuary away.

"Fucking hilarious, pet," Spike mused, turning his eyes to the yellow sky. "You called it, din't you? But then, you were always a step ahead of me."

A small breeze flirted with his ears, and he would have sworn he heard her laugh. He would have sworn but he didn't.

Spike cast his eyes downward and laughed shortly, shaking his head. He was pathetic…seeking the advice of a phantom. Talking to a figment of his bloody imagination as though she could impart wisdom he hadn't already considered. The truth of the matter was much simpler: he missed her. He missed Buffy so bloody much. Her quips, her laughs, her way with words…the way she didn't know how smart she was, or how funny. He missed arguing with her, missed the fights, even if they had been one-sided. The Buffy in his head had been imaginary on a rudimentary level, but at the same time, he'd made her into Buffy as he knew her. She'd denied it, of course, but those were his own fears talking—the fear he'd idolized the Slayer into something she wasn't, that he was jumping through hoops to touch an ideal, that the perfection he wanted didn't truly exist. She'd already been loved on a pedestal with Angel, and while Spike knew himself well enough to trust when he was or wasn't in love with someone, there was something so special, so _different_ about loving Buffy. It made him second-guess everything, even things that were absolute certainties, and speaking with the Buffy in his head had led him to answers he hadn't even realized he needed.

Loving her had changed him inside and out—changed him in ways he couldn't have understood or appreciated until she was gone.

Until he faced a world without her.

"Could use your divine insight now," he murmured. "Not even you predicted this one."

There was no response. He truly hadn't expected any.

"'Course you're in my head, right? You always bloody were…but it never seemed it. You were just…her." A smile tugged on his lips. "An' I only knew what you knew, because you were never really there."

A harsh breath rushed through his lips. This was ridiculous. He was sitting just feet from the genuine article and talking to himself under the guise that the voice in his head had been anything but his way of saving himself when he needed it the most.

Buffy had been within a breath of him. He could taste her fear and confusion, felt the weight of what was to come. He needed to talk with her. He needed to do something, because waiting was going to drive him out of his mind.

Something stirred from the inside of the warehouse, and he knew immediately she was awake. Her pulse raced and her heart pounded a little faster, a tempo which grew steadily as she realized she'd been left alone. Spike drew to his feet without hesitation and stalked back into the shadows. Into the room with the mad walls and the startled girl. The little shadow of who was once the Slayer.

Christ, she was still a vision. Time couldn't eradicate beauty, no matter how starved or beaten. Her tanned skin was rough with bruises and scars, some newer than others thanks to her newfound love of sparring, but she positively glowed in ways he'd never understood. The same sort of soft aura which had encompassed her the first time his eyes found her at the Bronze. It was something the other slayers hadn't had; something he understood to be Buffy's and Buffy's alone.

Perhaps it wasn't because she was the Chosen One…perhaps it was there because she was meant to be his.

"Mornin', love," he greeted, smiling and slipping his hands into his pockets. "How's the head?"

Buffy smiled at him, relief chasing away worry. A pang of guilt stabbed his heart. He hadn't wanted to frighten her.

She'd awaken alone for so long. He should have known better.

"Today's your day," Spike continued. "Whaddya fancy, hmm? Wanna go for a tumble?"

It was sodding ridiculous insisting on a one-way conversation, but the silence _had_ to be filled and he knew it was good for her. Or rather, he figured it was. Whatever he was doing seemed to be working, if what had happened last night was any indicator, and he had no other method of connecting.

None other but the thing he wouldn't do unless she wanted it.

Buffy's smile broadened as she climbed woozily to her feet, and he couldn't help but smile back. She was adorable. Purely adorable. It was maddening as fuck, of course, being caught between worlds, but there were some qualities about her that couldn't be ignored. This was one of them. She could be so damn cute it killed him.

His eyes took a detour down her legs.

_Right._ _Real cute._ Other times, it killed him just to look. Her t-shirt hiked up her hips when she reached to rub the sleep from her eyes. The primal, forbidden part of him roared awake. He didn't need to be reminded how she felt or tasted this early.

No, he had a whole bloody day for that.

"What we wouldn't do for a telly, eh?" Spike drawled, plucking a random pair of slacks off the ground and tossing them into her arms. "Here we are. Why don' you get dressed? Don't know where we're goin' just yet, but we'll find something."

Buffy's nose wrinkled but she complied without needing further instruction. She probably had expected his help in dressing.

And as much as he'd love to give it, he feared his control, as confused as it was, would come completely undone.

_Might not be a bad thing…_

Spike snorted and shook his head.

The last thing he needed was to give the devil on his shoulder an audience. In Hell, everything seemed like a good idea at first.

Or so he was learning.

*~*~*

The first time her head had ached, it had been in the midst of a fight. She'd been astride him, smirking in triumph and looking very much the way he remembered her. All brilliance, all fire, all victory…and it had dissolved on a gasp. She'd contorted and writhed, whimpered in agony he could barely understand, much less console. It had been gone before he realized what had happened and what the implications were.

The second time had been later that day. He'd stumbled upon her in a private moment, studying the work she'd made of the walls. As though seeing them for the first time, reconnecting what her carvings meant. He'd spoken knowing he ought to keep quiet, knowing he'd disturb the moment, but he'd been too damn excited to bite his tongue.

And then last night. After whispering his name, after forming words, after pleading with him for…for what?

Spike exhaled sharply and squeezed Buffy's hand. She favored him with a curious frown but he didn't meet her eyes. No sense expanding upon what couldn't be explained.

"Probably wouldn't hurt to go on a hunt today," he mused. "Get some more pork before the pickings grow thin."

Not a possibility, he knew, but she expected words and he was too preoccupied to try and find something meaningful to say.

They drew to a stop at the river's bank. He hadn't even known this was where his feet were heading until the scent thickened the air. Made sense. He was peckish and this was the best way to prepare for what promised to be a long day.

There were other things he'd noticed. Buffy's whole demeanor about the river had changed; the hesitation she'd once exhibited was gone now, and it had been since the morning she led him here of her own accord. She understood now that it was something he needed, not something to be feared. Therefore when he'd set the now-familiar course, she'd fallen into pace at his side, tossing him glances every now and then which he met with an encouraging smile—a smile that never quite reaching his eyes.

He was so close to something. So damn close.

"Stay here, kitten," Spike told her, holding up a hand for emphasis as the bones in his face shifted. "Won' take long."

He hadn't even managed to turn around fully before her gasp hit the air, and immediately he knew. The demon retreated instantly, his feet twisting in the blood-caked mud. A harsh, metallic cry ripped through her body and sent her to her knees before he could catch her.

"Buffy! Buffy!" He fell to the ground beside her and seized her wrists. "Hold on, sweetheart, just hold on. It won't be—"

Bloodshot eyes found his and every molecule froze.

And then her jaw fell open and she screamed. The universe could have unwound on that scream. It knew no end, stretching to the limits of this dimension and besieging others. Creating storms above and drilling into the ground below. He felt everything—he held her, refused to fall aside no matter how tempting she made it. Bugger if he knew what was happening, but he knew he had to hold her through it. No matter how hard her skin rattled against her bones. Buffy screamed and screamed, screamed until the force raping the air and beating it dry descended into an agonized ring. Screaming until her tired voice gave and she could scream no more.

She shook. She shivered. She huddled against his chest.

Nothing. _Nothing._

"Bloody hell," Spike gasped, bracing the back of her head. "Buffy…"

"Oh…God."

Everything stopped.

She coughed harshly and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Harsh tremors erupted through her body, partly as aftershock. Part…God, he didn't know.

He was too afraid to look.

"Who…" Buffy coughed again. The ground trembled beneath her. "I…where…is that…Spike?"

It wasn't real. It _wasn't_ real. It wouldn't last. She'd be gone again when he looked at her. Like the warehouse, like last night. Small visits, baby-steps. He just had to keep her here long enough to make an impact. Make a dent for when she was chased away again.

"I…I…what…_what is happening?" _

Christ, he couldn't take it. He looked up.

_Don't run, don't run. Don't be another fucking ghost. _

Their eyes clashed.

_Oh my God. _

Buffy was looking at him through her eyes.

She was real.

_She was real. _

"Don't run away again," Spike whispered. He didn't realize he was crying until he tasted tears.

There was a frown of confusion, but it didn't last long. The period between dreams and consciousness was always brief. And the instant she remembered—the _second_ she understood—his reality came crashing down.

She was in Hell and she'd managed to hide within herself long enough to forget.

And when she dissolved, he was there to catch her.

It was all he could do. All he knew.

The world had just been rewritten.

**TBC**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N**: I know, it's been ten years since I updated this story. I'm sorry! One of my betas had a computer crisis, and while I am still technically waiting for revisions, I've decided I can't wait any longer…so there will be a better version of this available—I'll let you all know via my personal LJ when it's up.

I waited for-freaking-ever to write this chapter…I really hope it comes across as intended.

Thanks so much to all my extremely hard-working betas and all my wonderful readers who have stuck with me through this story. Also, thanks to whoever nominated this story at The Fang Fetish Awards!! It won for Best Dark/Angst in the Spuffy category.

**Previously:**

_"Oh…God."_

_Everything stopped._

_"Who…" Buffy coughed again. The ground trembled beneath her. "I…where…is that…Spike?"_

_It wasn't real. It __**wasn't**__ real. It wouldn't last. She'd be gone again when he looked at her. Like the warehouse, like last night. Small visits, baby-steps. He just had to keep her here long enough to make an impact. Make a dent for when she was chased away again._

_"I…I…what…__**what is happening?" **_

_Christ, he couldn't take it. He looked up._

_**Don't run, don't run. Don't be another fucking ghost. **_

_Their eyes clashed._

_**Oh my God. **_

_Buffy was looking at him through her eyes._

**Chapter Twenty-three**

He'd been staring at his fingernails for a while now. Hours, maybe. That seemed reasonable. Certainly, hours could have passed without his notice. His mind was lost, occupied with the girl who had disappeared behind the bathroom door, wondering if she'd ever emerge.

Wondering what face she'd wear when she did.

Everything was blurry now. He sat dumbfounded in the sloppy room connected to the shower they'd used before, replaying the morning over and over again as if demanding the Powers to admit their joke. Even after what had happened, even after what he'd seen and experienced, it didn't seem possible. He'd waited long and he'd been prepared to wait longer—months, years, lifetimes if necessary, and while he grew angry with the Powers for yo-yoing her back and forth—for giving him glimpses of her only to take her away again, the larger part of him had known these things had no time limit. Making her way back through her mind's wilderness was a feat no one else had ever been asked to conquer, and through her journey, he had to be patient. He had to understand this wasn't about him at all, and it never had been.

Yet here he was.

Spike sat on the edge of a worn mattress, surrounded by discarded clothing and gutted stuffed animals, eyes glued to his plain, unmarked nails as the shower ran in the next room.

She hadn't spoken much since the walls came down. His name had escaped her lips half a dozen times, as though double-checking his realness, now that the nightmare had broken into the light. However, the storm he'd always anticipated had never come, nor had the sobs and the screams, save for that first one. Through his stupor, he supposed, his mind had switched off, autopilot guiding his feet to where they were now. And while she'd trembled and shivered, while her hands had grappled for his, while her eyes had darted furiously from one end of her hell to the next, she hadn't shattered. She'd held onto him and let him lead her where he willed.

Spike shuddered a sigh, then tensed when he heard the water shut off. God, for all the longing, all the waiting, the crying and begging the cosmos for some divine mercy, he was bloody terrified of what he would see when she opened the door. He'd wanted this for so long—_so long¬_—and now that he had it, anxiety had frozen his nerves. He didn't know what to do—what was too much and what wasn't enough. If he was helping or hindering her right now, just by sitting on a bed and looking at his fingernails. He didn't know what to do, and the _not knowing_ rattled him with enough fury to render him nothing but a pile of bones.

The door opened. Spike drew in a sharp breath. Buffy stepped out.

She looked older than she had that morning—the carefree spirit with which ignorance had gifted her completely eradicated, the girlish gleam replaced with saddened maturity. She'd pulled on a t-shirt and a baggy pair of slacks that cut off at the ankle, her wet hair brushed and hanging over one shoulder. She was still for a time but likely not as long as it seemed, and when she met his eyes, the full burden of knowledge came crashing down.

"How long?" she said softly. Her voice was raw from disuse, a fact so small it was easily overlooked, but one that, for whatever reason brought everything into stark, unforgiving reality. Reality he thought he already understood.

Hot tears pricked his eyes but he refused to cry them. He had nothing to cry for. In the long run, there was little he'd lost—little to throw in comparison.

"A few days, is all," Spike replied.

A weary, defeated smile crept onto her face, a splotch of color in a black-and-white strip. "A few days?" Buffy repeated.

"Since I got here, you mean?"

"Since…I jumped, right? I remember jumping."

Spike winced, turning his eyes to the ground. He hadn't truly fathomed how hard it would be simply looking at her. "You jumped," he agreed. "An' it was a week after that. I started then. You'd been gone a week when I left to find you."

If she was surprised by this, it didn't reflect in her face. "How long did it take you?"

"Three days."

"So I've been gone ten." Buffy turned away at last, and he looked up when he felt her move. Her back was to him, and her shoulders slumped. And without warning the storm came, tearing through her with such fury he didn't realize it had arrived at all until she doubled over. Everything else fell away in a blink; Spike jumped to his feet and drew her into his arms on instinct alone, and for the next fifteen minutes there was nothing in the universe but them.

Holding her now was different. It was truly Buffy this time—not a shade, not a woman with her face. He kept her close, stroking her skin and murmuring wordlessly as the world around them trembled. And though it didn't come at first, he steadily became aware of the moment's unreality. He might as well have stepped into a painting. Buffy wasn't the sort to seek comfort from people—least of all him. When she hurt, she suffered in silence, occasionally breaking the quiet so the world would feel her pain, but she usually opted to close herself off, putting distance between where she was and the place where hurt magnified into agony. At some point in her youth, likely around the time they'd first met, Buffy had stopped confiding in those closest to her; she'd seen what damage they could reap, and thought it safest to hide within the confines of herself.

Spike wasn't used to Buffy crying. He'd sat with her once when she cried, but she hadn't done much else besides allow him to be alone with her. She always appeared the epitome of fortitude, but more often than not, he suspected, it was because she had no other option. The world's warrior couldn't be fragile, even in private moments. To do so would be to call into question her every decision.

Warriors couldn't be human. This was a lesson she'd gathered from experience.

"You came after me."

The words were so soft he thought he'd imagined them at first.

"Of course I came after you," Spike replied, tightening his arms around her. "Couldn't bloody live with myself if I—"

"You were a vampire, right?" Buffy sniffed and pulled back, her eyes hollow and lined with red. "I don't mean…it's fuzzy. Everything is fuzzy…I see things I know. People I know. There are things I definitely remember and others I think I…but I do remember you. You were a vampire."

He waved a hand and forced an uncomfortable grin. "Still am. Not the sort 'f thing you fix by poppin' Tylenol, love."

She didn't smile and he didn't blame her. There really was nothing to laugh about.

"I remember that," she agreed. "I remember…Dawn. And Giles. And my mom."

"The Scoobies? You remember them?"

Buffy licked her lips. "Dawn's my sister." She looked away without addressing his question. "How long have I been here?"

"A long bloody time."

"You loved me." Her eyes went wide with the weight of an epiphany, then dulled as though she realized it was something she hadn't truly forgotten. "You loved me and that's why you came here."

He nodded. It felt so surreal hearing someone else fill the silence.

"I died for Dawn, didn't I?"

"No, sweetheart," Spike replied honestly. "You didn't die at all."

"I didn't?"

"You jumped an' disappeared."

"And…this is Hell." There was no surprise in her voice, not the sort of shaky revelation he thought she might make—the sort that resulted in more tears and screaming. It was something she'd known before she forgot. Something ingrained well before her memories were stuffed into a place she was supposed to lose forever. "I fell into Hell."

"Jus' one of many, if memory serves." When she looked at him askance, he shrugged. Christ, what he wouldn't do for a fag right now. "Been a bit for me, too, kitten. Took a piece to get to you."

"What happened?"

Spike winced, his arms dropping to his sides. "Doesn' matter."

"No, it does. I thought it took you three days?"

"An' it did."

"There's something you're not telling me."

"It doesn' matter."

"Spike…"

The inflection in her voice was heartbreakingly familiar. With that alone she had the power to reduce him to a babbling mess of tears. Spike sighed heavily and shook his head, turning away from her completely. "It doesn't matter," he said again. Then he twisted to face her once more; the ache in his belly worsened when he couldn't see her. "I got here, an' that's all that's important, yeah?"

Her eyes clearly disagreed with him but she didn't press the issue. An uncomfortable silence settled between them.

Then she said, "I thought you were blond."

Spike frowned. "Huh?"

A warm wave of pink tinted her cheeks, seemingly startling her as much as it did him, as if they'd both assumed she'd forgotten how to blush. "Umm, your hair," she said, waving a hand. "My mind…I remember you being blond. Or was that someone else?"

He stared at her for a few seconds before allowing himself to grin. "You remember right," he assured her.

"Very blond. We called you—"

"Bleach boy, an' a few choice others."

Buffy nodded. "I remember."

"You used to be blonde, too," he said. "Time jus' washes it away."

"So there was a lot of time, then. More than three days—much more."

It took a second to realize she'd led him in a circle. "Bloody clever," he murmured. "Bleach fades after a while, pet. You gotta keep it up regularly."

"Just tell me how long it took, Spike."

He sighed. There was no sense keeping things from her—she had a way of finding out. Always bloody did. "It was three days," he replied, then gestured to the ceiling. "Up there, at least. I got locked into your time when I started."

"Hell-time," she clarified absently.

"Right."

"So three days turned into…"

"Three centuries."

There was no reaction at first; not a slack jaw, not a surprised gasp, not a solemn blink to even acknowledge she'd heard him. Oh, but he saw the pinwheels turning. He felt her calculating her own time served and felt the ripple of astonishment when she realized she'd been Hell's prisoner for a millennium. However, when her eyes returned to his there was nothing but awe and gratitude. No sadness or despair, even if those things weighed her down around every other turn. She wasn't about to start crying for herself now—or at least not again.

"Three centuries?" Buffy whispered. "You spent three centuries trying to get to me?"

Spike nodded numbly.

"But…we weren't…we weren't lovers, were we?"

"No. Not for lack of trying, though." He smiled. "You hated me."

"I did not."

Of this she seemed certain. She _wouldn't_ be certain when the murky shadows fell away and the memories really began rolling in.

"You're the Slayer," Spike explained, shrugging. "I'm the one with fangs. You hated me, an' bloody resented that I was in love with you."

"But I was with a vampire before. I remember that."

A dark shadow played across his mind. "That, accordin' to you, was different. He had what I didn't."

Buffy nodded then, her eyes brightening with the touch of a memory. "A soul."

"A sodding soul." His jaw clenched. "I din't. All I had was—"

"Something in your head. I remember this." A long breath rolled off her shoulders. "You spent three hundred years trying to get to me?"

"I love you," Spike replied. It was the most obvious thing in the world to him. "I would've waited longer if they wanted."

"Who's they?"

He hesitated, then sighed. _Fuck._ There truly was no sense keeping the truth from her. She had the advantage here; it was her world, her territory, and he was in love with her. He was the one with everything to lose, and Christ Almighty, wasn't that a bit of déjà vu? Just when he thought he couldn't possibly feel more at home…

"A guardian by the name of Larry," he explained. "You remember Willow, love?"

Buffy nodded, but he sensed she didn't truly remember until halfway through the nod.

"Willow an' your watcher pieced it together. When you jumped, you created your very own Hell."

"I created this."

"Your fears, your…sod all, I don't know the full of it, but this world, everything you see, everything you…it's here because you fear it. Makes bloody sense to me, though it took actually making it here before I understood." Spike sighed again, shaking his head. "Your worst fears, everythin' _you_ would call Hell…it made this, what you see. But you didn't die, pet. You jumped into Hell but you didn't die. That's why I wager they keep shovin' swine at you, an' why you have water here. Gotta keep you fed somehow, yeah?"

Buffy just looked at him, agreeing with her eyes but not moving.

"You bein' a slayer and alive made it bloody difficult getting in. There are rules, see. An' only someone without a soul can get where I got. Human souls are bloody breakable. Thankfully, yours truly didn't have that problem."

"So that's why you came after me."

Spike balked. "No. Fuck no. After I figured where you were, the devil himself couldn't've stopped me, sweetheart. You had it right the firs' time. I came here because I love you. No bloody way would I have jus' sat back an' let someone else muck up the only chance there was at getting you out."

It was probably wishful thinking, but he could have sworn her eyes sparked with relief.

"There are other things," he continued. "I don' remember everythin'. A lot of rot about some bloke who braved Hell once an' knew how to sidestep the booby-traps. Got the rules from that, an' then I came in after you."

Buffy licked her lips. "What were the rules?"

Something he'd never forget. That's what they were.

"No promises. Don't take what you're offered." He paused. "Don't forget your name."

A significant silence settled between them. Her brow furrowed, and it didn't take much to follow her train of thought. "That's what happened to me, isn't it?" she asked softly. "When I couldn't…everything is so…I was all right for a while. I remember…God, I remember when I got here. It was…" She broke away, balling her hands into fists and shaking so hard he thought she might collapse. The spell didn't last long, granted, just long enough to make him feel the pain of every day he hadn't been there to rescue her from herself. "I forgot my name, didn't I?"

Spike measured a deep breath. There was so much to say, and so much he felt he should keep to himself. "I think so, love."

"And you helped me find it."

"I don't know—"

"I do." The resolve on her face was unquestionable. "Everything changed when you got here, Spike. I didn't…I can't even begin to…" A pause. "Thanking you isn't enough. I don't know what enough would be."

"Buffy—"

"I was horrible to you. I didn't _hate_ you. I know that…but I remember being horrible anyway."

"You really weren't, pet," he assured her. "Not in the way you think. There at the end, you treated me like…like I've never been treated in my whole bloody life. Everything before that was…I surprised you, is all. You didn't know how to go about it."

She thought about that for a minute but ultimately offered no reply. Perhaps there was none.

"What happens now?" she asked instead. "There's so much in my head. Pictures. People. So many…and it won't stop."

He remembered the way he'd felt when he toppled out of the cavern. A fraction of the time she'd spent here, he'd recovered in a manner that seemed damn near uncanny. He didn't know what to make of that or what to tell her. There was no _I understand_ in this world, because while he could grasp what she was saying, no amount of experience made for understanding. A thousand years of lost time gathering against her, bombarding her fragile memory with images and faces she'd long forgotten. She couldn't be asked too much now.

She couldn't be asked anything.

"Do you want to stay here?" Spike asked. "Not much, but there is a bed. An' a shower. Step up from the other place, right?"

Buffy frowned thoughtfully. "No."

"No?"

"The other place…the warehouse. That's important."

"Yeah?"

"I don't remember how, but it was important to me once. At some point."

"The writing? The carving on the walls?"

She blinked, looking almost surprised. As though she hadn't expected he would be able to see the words there. "Yeah. It's important. It's very…"

Her eyes grew distant, her voice chasing her mind down a path he could not follow.

"Buffy?"

"It's important. I don't remember why, but I needed to be there. I needed…"

"If it's important, we'll go back."

She nodded numbly, then her eyes found his again. "Do you really still love me?" she asked, surprising the fuck out of him. Before he could respond, she went on, "Three hundred years is a long time, and I know there's more. There's more than what you're telling me."

"That's one thing you never have to ask," Spike replied firmly. "I'm yours, Buffy. Yours till dust. Always bloody have been. Longer than I knew, even. Don't regret a second of it. I would've waited forever to find you."

He wasn't prepared for the look that stole her eyes or the tears that dribbled down her cheeks. Nor was he prepared to be taken into her arms. But she drew him to her breast and held him close, comforting him as a lover. It was perfect—a perfect stolen instant, one he didn't quite grasp. One he didn't fully trust was real.

"Thank you," she whispered. And that was it. She didn't say the words back; at that moment, he was glad. He'd never come to her to steal her heart, and even if it managed to happen, even if she let him touch her, it shouldn't happen now. It wouldn't be real.

Her body pressed to his, his wet cheek against her shirt, feeling the heart of her hug, that was real.

And he wanted to hold it as long as he could.

**TBC**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N**: So it hasn't been quite as long between updates. YAY! And I am going to get cracking on the next chapter—hope to get a bit done this afternoon before I go to the movies with my mum.

Just a note about this chapter: this is the only time I'm going to write from Buffy's POV…and even still, it's not entirely from her POV. I know a lot of people wanted to see inside her head, but I resolved a while ago not to leave Spike's POV, and I'm going to stick by it. I only broke that for this chapter because I felt if she spoke the words it would lose its impact. I went for more of a "we're inside the narrative" effect. Not sure if it works, but that is what I was aiming to accomplish.

ABUNDANT THANKS to my wonderful betas, who hauled ass to get this chapter back to me. **megan_peta**, **just_sue**, and **dusty273**…you all rock so very hard.

**Chapter Twenty-four**

Spike supposed the sense of supreme unreality was a part of Hell, but he'd foolishly thought he had at least begun to understand her world. Standing with her, walking with her, was a part of that. She'd been quiet since leaving the apartment. Clean now, eyes burdened with the knowledge of a thousand years, and quiet. When he reached for her, she didn't shy. When his hand wrapped around her wrist, she huddled herself closer, needing contact as much as he did. No, needing it more. She'd been without touch for so long.

Nothing was real anymore, and yet at the same time, everything was.

"It's strange," Buffy said.

He waited for her to elaborate. She did not. And he knew why—in this world, that statement was redundant, and clarification was unneeded. However, he needed clarification now more than ever. Whatever she was thinking, whatever she re-experienced, he wanted to know. He _had_ to know.

"What's strange, love?"

She licked her lips, pulling him to a halt. "I just woke up. That's how I feel." Her eyes wandered upward. "Like I just woke up."

Spike stared at her for a long minute, then sighed and kicked up dust. She'd fallen asleep in a nightmare—a nightmare waiting for her when she awoke.

"What's the last thing you remember?" he asked, not expecting an answer. She had a long way before she'd chased down her memories.

_Miles to go before I sleep. _

However, in the still quiet settled between them, the storm brewing behind her eyes told a different story.

"Falling," she said.

*~*~*

_She'd always wondered what dying felt like. Would it hurt? How long would the hurt last—would she feel the impact, or would she be dead before she hit the concrete? Would she feel anything at all? What happened next? It wasn't over—she knew enough about dimensions to know the soul lived on after death. This was the start of something different, not just the end._

Where would death take her?

A thousand things spiraled through her mind. A thousand what-ifs. A thousand possibilities. A thousand faces of those she would take on her journey—people to remember and cherish. And oddly, as her body plummeted toward infinity, one constant kept surfacing. It was the conversation she had with Spike in the alley outside the Bronze. Death was her art, he'd told her, and she would want this someday. She would want the free-fall of not knowing what the next step would bring. It would be liberating and terrifying, all at once.

She'd understood what he meant then…far too much for comfort, but now, as the ground whisked aside and she tore out of her reality, Buffy found herself overwhelmed with the most profound peace she'd ever known. It was like the stories told by people who weren't supposed to live. The lack of fear, the certainty of fate, and the welcome embrace of whatever was to come. It consumed her, calmed her, and carried her from her world into a vortex of uncertainty.

She fell forever until the light faded into darkness. Her last thoughts were of Dawn, and how she hoped her sister knew how loved she was, but more than anything, hoped she would one day understand.

Death provided an escape. No more worrying, no more sleepless nights, no more Glory.

It would be so nice to finally rest. 

*~*~*

_The world she entered was wrong. Everything was wrong._

She thought perhaps if she didn't acknowledge what it was, where she was, its reality would fade. After all, admitting to herself that she was in Hell was a particularly terrifying thing, but there was no doubt in her mind. From the second Buffy pried her eyes open, her body aching in ways it didn't know it could ache, she'd known where she was.

She'd known it, but she hadn't admitted it. She couldn't. For everything she had sacrificed, for her all that she had offered, she couldn't believe it. The first few days were spent wandering the haunted streets in utter disbelief, screaming the names of her friends, sure the Powers wouldn't be so cruel. She'd given her life to save the world. She had peace coming to her. Rest. Solace. Comfort in the aftermath of battle, sleep after months of rotting away in fear of what was coming. All of that was supposed to end.

_The longer she searched, the more she saw, the colder her terror became. Complete and utter isolation. The buildings were empty save for a few bits of scattered debris left behind by people who had likely never existed. She wandered the streets of fear come to life, cocooned under a sickly yellow sky. Every step she took shoved her deeper into the nightmare._

This was not right.

"Hey!" Her voice carried over the city and dispersed into a thousand whispers, all firing back at her with unforgiving precision. It didn't calm the fury in her chest; rather than shrink away, she screamed louder. "HEY! I'm not supposed to be here!"

The whispers snickered and shot back all at once, drowning her cry under a sea of mindless noise.

Still, she didn't give up.

"Willow! Giles!" Her eyes were heaven-turned, but thoughts of Heaven had no place here. "GILES! Willow!" A pause, then again. "Xander! Dawn! Giles! Spike! God, anyone! I'm here! I'm here! _**I'M HERE!" **___

She barely heard the words. The whispers were everywhere, sneaking into her ears and turning sound against itself. Within seconds, her temples throbbed and her eardrums vibrated and if it grew any louder, she was certain her head would pop right off her body.

They couldn't hear her. No one could.

She was alone. 

*~*~*

_Hunger had transcended the pangs she'd grown up with. It wasn't until she realized she was starving to death that she understood the sounds that kept her up at night; the animals she heard roaming the deserted city, were there for her and her alone…were there to sate her appetite._

Because she wasn't dead. She still needed food.

And whatever was out there…she was supposed to hunt. 

*~*~*

_The river wasn't going anywhere._

It was familiar now. The shock had worn off, though not as quickly as she would have liked. Every time her feet led her to this place she felt she had stepped out of her life and into a horror movie. But then, that was the point, wasn't it? She wasn't in her life anymore…and this was very much a horror movie.

In every sense of the term.

The river's bank was saturated a dark crimson red that only deepened with age. She'd crossed it so many times. Up to her neck in blood, her arms fighting the current with futile strokes of arms weak with hunger and weighted with desolation. For some reason, it seemed so logical in her head…if she could just get across the river she could walk away. It might take days, weeks…it didn't matter, but across the river was the only way out.

The whispers from the town couldn't find her in the Out There.

It was a theory she'd tested over and over. And every time she managed to battle her way across the river of blood, she found herself standing on the opposite bank, right where she'd started.

The cold fingers of despair were always there to catch her when she collapsed.

It was foolish to think there was escape from Hell. 

*~*~*

_Angel had been lost for centuries. Not in her world, of course…not on Earth, but to him, he had spent lifetimes enduring torment she hadn't been able to fathom until now. Though somehow, Buffy suspected her Hell was different than his. She didn't see Angel being the type to mind the solitude._

Perhaps Hell was different for everyone.

Still, different versions of torture notwithstanding, it all boiled down to one conclusion. For the months she'd been gone, in the time since she jumped, there was every possibility no time at all had passed for her friends. And they would try to find her. Buffy knew they would try to find her. Her friends weren't quitters, and they wouldn't stand aside and let her rot away in whatever dimension she'd fallen in to. They would try to find her.

She could only hope there was something left to find by the time they arrived. 

*~*~*

_She'd once considered time an enemy, she had so little of it. The second she'd been called her life expectancy had been stamped with an unforgiving expiration date. Every day was a fight for survival. Grow too confident and she'd be the victim of arrogance, lack confidence and she wouldn't live to see tomorrow. There was no use fighting a losing battle, except when the fight was all she had._

Never enough time.

It wasn't that way anymore. All she had was time. When months began to melt into years, she didn't know. But days came and went and the world around her didn't change. Every day she awoke with the same despair, the same dearth of hope, the same horrid knowledge that there was no escape.

She'd tried. God knows how she'd tried. The river had been crossed so many times, at so many points, and every time she made it to the other side, she found herself back where she started. She'd screamed until her voice gave out, screamed until she tasted blood in the back of her throat. And every day brought the same. She awoke with a hole carved in her heart, with desperation to which she'd long grown numb. How many years had passed? How did she even keep it straight?

Isolation was going to drive her insane. She heard voices. Everywhere she turned, voices followed. Had they always been there, or was she just hearing them now?

Time was an enemy, all right.

Only not the enemy she'd once thought it to be. 

*~*~*

_It was as though the corners in her mind had started to round, rendering the shapes upon which she relied into little more than familiar blurs. Names she'd known all her life began running together. Life before Hell seemed like a place she'd dreamed, an unanswered wish. People she'd kept with her had become nothing but phantoms, and every day she retreated further within herself. Every day, she lost something important. Something she should try to hold, but couldn't despite her best efforts._

She was beginning to forget, and that terrified her.

She couldn't let herself forget. 

*~*~*

Dawn. Giles. Willow. Dawn. Xander. Tara. Spike. Dawn. Anya. Buffy. Giles. Xander. Willow.

_She was on her knees in a corner of some random warehouse, nails digging into her scalp, temples pounding, heart racing, names speeding through her head, heedless that she was too lost to keep up. _

Spike. Giles. Angel. Willow. Riley. Giles. Buffy. Dawn. Tara. Spike.

_They were leaving her. She didn't remember what they looked like. She didn't know if they were real at all._

She just knew she had to hold on. She couldn't forget. 

*~*~*

_"Can't forget, can't forget, can't forget."_

Blood dribbled down her hand, glass tearing into her palm, but she didn't blink, didn't look away. Language had nearly lost meaning. She never spoke anymore, hadn't in years save a word here or there, but for whatever reason it seemed important now. Words were important. Names were important.

She couldn't forget, so she wrote. She carved. Name after name. Over and over. 

Willow. Giles. Dawn. Spike. Xander. Buffy. Anya. Tara. Riley. Xander. Mom. Oz. Dad. Cordelia. Giles. Riley. Dawn. Angel. Faith. Willow. Spike. Buffy. Dawn. Angel. Willow. Giles. Xander. Mom. Buffy.

_Over and over. Plaster dust stung her eyes and choked her throat. Her hand begged her lenience, but she would grant none._

She couldn't let herself forget. 

Spike. Giles. Buffy. Dawn. Xander. Willow. Tara. Anya.

_She couldn't forget. _

*~*~*

_The walls were covered. Her hands were scarred. Blood caked her skin. A body long numb to pain began to ache, but she didn't move. She couldn't. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the walls. She had to remember. If she looked away, she would forget. Her mind would leave her completely._

So she sat and stared, eyes roaming the names until letters blurred and darkness fell.

She wouldn't sleep. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't look away.

The names had no faces, no meaning, but they were important, and she had to watch.

They would disappear if she gave them the chance. 

*~*~*

_"Don't forget, don't forget, don't forget, please don't let me forget, don't forget…"_

*~*~*

_Something about the walls. There was something about the walls._

She wrinkled her nose and took a step forward. The marks carved were twisted, deformed…and important. They were important for some reason. She'd put them there. Her hands hurt. There was blood on the floor. She had put them there. The marks. The writings there were hers. They meant something. They were important.

There was some reason they were important.

But she didn't know why, and she didn't know what they were.

The words on the walls were meaningless. 

*~*~*

_Nothing ever changed. Never._

She woke. She wandered. She ate. She slept.

She stared at the walls and waited for them to make sense. She sat outside for hours and waited for the voice behind the whispers to present itself. She waited for something that never came.

She waited. And nothing ever changed. 

*~*~*

There were things the brain didn't remember without a trigger. It started with just a few words here and there. They had left the apartment complex perhaps thirty minutes ago, walking side-by-side, hands brushing with every stride. He'd asked an innocent question—a seemingly innocent question—though he didn't remember what it was now, and Buffy had answered with a story that built upon itself as memories broke through her mind's wall.

She told him more than he wanted to know, but things he needed to hear all the same. The picture she painted wasn't unlike the images that had plagued him, but hearing her voice, her words wrapped around experience, the small part of him that had been cushioned and protected from the reality of her nightmare shattered. His mind filled in the rest.

There were no words he could summon. No sympathies he could offer. He'd long known this would be the case—relating to someone who had lost everything was impossible. He'd known this, recognized it over and over, but knowledge didn't soften the blow. Spike wanted words and there were none.

There was only silence.

"My throat hurts," Buffy volunteered, aiming a strained smile in his direction when he met her eyes. They were outside the warehouse—the one she'd marked—but had yet to step inside. It was another threshold; something would be different when they entered, and Spike reckoned she wasn't eager for the past to gain any more footholds than it already had.

So they stood outside together, the spell broken. Her memories were between them—she'd given him a story in black and white, but his mind had filled in the color, and he figured she was at a loss for words just as much as he. Funny enough, now that she'd regained them.

Spike's mouth twitched. "Not used to talking, I'd wager."

She nodded and looked away. "It took you three hundred years to get here." It wasn't a question, rather a thought she needed vocalized; as though she could see the words and make better sense of them when they lived in the air. "I thought that…"

"You thought what, love?"

There was no answer. Her eyes had focused on something he couldn't see, and the look painted across her face was something he'd only seen in old war veterans, recalling horrors beyond imagination. She wasn't frowning or upset or anything that could be named; rather, she was blank, completely vacant, and that very vacancy resonated more than tears ever could.

Then she shook her head and blinked, and just like that, she was with him again.

"I—ahh, umm, I thought…my friends would come for me."

"I didn't get here fast enough."

Buffy frowned and looked at him. "Don't," she implored softly. "Spike…my mind isn't…memories are coming, and I remember more the more I…but please, don't apologize for doing…don't apologize for anything. You got here."

"Not sure if that's a blessing or a curse. I brought it back, didn't I?"

"The world, you mean."

"This world."

She exhaled heavily, her eyes falling. "It's going to…it'll be hard. I keep getting images and feelings and faces…and things I know I should know but _can't remember._ But you can't imagine what it was like before you arrived."

No, he really couldn't, nor did he want to. The thought alone was terrifying…and knowing that she'd suffered centuries of exile, of feeling things he didn't want to imagine, only made it worse.

"When I saw you it terrified me," Buffy whispered. "I didn't know…I didn't think other people were real anymore."

Spike licked his lips and nodded. The encounter in the alley was still fresh. Buffy clawing at walls, trembling and cowering…a shade of the girl she'd been. "I know."

"It was…"

Another quiet settled between them. Her voice trailed away, and he saw she'd balled her hands into fists again. Tremors had seized her body, harsh ones like those back at the apartment complex, and his body immediately knew what to do even if his mind couldn't keep up. It would take a long while for him to get used to her curling into his proffered embrace. He expected her to shy or jerk away, but the second his hand fell on her shoulder she was wrapped around him. She clutched and shook, and he held her through it. There were no tears this time, just the comfort of silence.

Then she was whispering against his skin, and every nerve in his body sparked to life. "Thank you," she whispered. "Spike…thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you…"

His heart broke. She had already thanked him at the apartment, and he didn't know how much more of her gratitude he could handle…especially when he felt nothing like a hero. He'd made it here, yes, but she'd still lost. She'd still suffered. He hadn't been able to prevent that.

"Buffy…"

Her lips brushed his skin and his knees nearly buckled. "Thank you. Thank you for coming for me."

Spike inhaled sharply and shoved his own shortcomings aside.

_This isn't about me. It's for her. _

"I love you. Of course I came."

But that wasn't always the case—love didn't always triumph. Love, when tested, most frequently failed to beat the odds. And even with her faulty memories, the way she held him let him know with no uncertain terms that she understood his sacrifices, even if he fully did not.

"Thank you," she whispered again.

His arms tightened around her. The words he had to say felt ridiculous; even still, he knew they were what she needed. "You're welcome."

A long sigh rumbled through her body. She hugged him tighter but did not respond.

The door to the warehouse waited. The sky above darkened. The whispers drifted around them. And though nothing had changed, when they finally pulled apart the air between them felt charged.

There was still so much to do. So much to say—so much to unravel. So much to revisit. However, before Spike took her hand and guided her back into her nightmare, he wanted a moment of quiet.

He had a feeling they were both going to need it.

**TBC**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: **I really want to say something witty here, but I am too damn tired. Um. Thanks, betas. I love you, my readers. Vote at The Spuffy Awards….where two of my fics are up for pretties [/selfish]

Speaking of self-involved, I just got notification that Wicked was nominated at the Spark and Burn Awards. THANK YOU SO MUCH TO WHOEVER NOMINATED ME! YOU ARE AWESOME!

Yeah. I gotta do this before I drop.

**Chapter Twenty-five**

"What happens now?"

Spike tore his eyes away from the walls almost sheepishly. He'd been unable to do little more than stare since she'd led him inside. It was bloody amazing—he'd come to expect so much, had seen so many things, but he hadn't been prepared for the writings to turn into names. It wasn't extraordinary given the catalogue of experiences he'd had over the years…perhaps because it made everything she'd told him real, even if he knew it had been nothing else.

"What do you mean, pet?"

She sat on the makeshift bed, studying him with a warmth that made his toes curl and his body think of things it shouldn't. "Is it weird?" she asked.

He smirked. "Let a bloke answer the first question before runnin' off to the next."

"The walls, I mean." Buffy licked her lips, her eyes wandering over her carvings. "They didn't always look like this, did they?"

"No, love."

"I can't keep track of what's real and what's not. But I think I remember—"

"When I got here, it was unreadable," he assured her. "I think your remembering turned it back."

She nodded. "I just don't understand why…"

A thick pause settled between them as she searched for words. When the silence became uncomfortable, he prompted, "Why your marks would change?"

"Right," she said. "This isn't normal, is it?"

"Normal's relative, love," Spike replied. He didn't know what difference it made, didn't know whether or not he was talking out of his arse, but it felt so wonderful just talking with her that he didn't care enough to evaluate what was said. Not at the moment, at the very least. "Your world, your rules, that's how I figure it. You told me the words stopped making sense to you, right?"

Buffy nodded again, though she didn't look any more enlightened than before.

"I figure they just…became what you perceived."

"I can do that?"

"Your world," he reminded her. "Not sure how this works, but I reckon you control what you see to a degree."

Her nose wrinkled. "I think I want a refund."

A small ripple of mirth spread through his body; he managed to kill his grin. He hadn't thought she'd be up for quips just yet, but _Christ _it was good to hear. "Just a theory," he said again.

"It's a good theory."

"There were a lot of talks before I left," Spike said, gesturing, "about this. About where you were and what to expect. I bloody resented it at the time, but it probably saved my life. All the hoops I had to jump…"

Buffy nodded faintly, wrapping her arms around her legs. "Three hundred years is a long time to look for someone," she remarked. Her eyes met his. "What happened, Spike?"

"It doesn't matter."

"That's not fair. I told you my story of woe."

"Right, love, you did. Wasn't a quid pro quo."

"It had to be bad if you're not telling me."

Spike's brows perked. "How do you figure? Maybe I had a right good old time and I feel like shit knowing I was livin' the good life while you suffered."

She rolled her eyes. "You're a terrible liar."

"Oi! I'm a right good liar. You just didn't give me time to come up with a convincin' story." He shuffled self-consciously. "I'm evil. Hell's evil. Figure I'm right at home."

Buffy didn't look convinced. In fact, the look on her face was so thoroughly familiar he nearly felt weak in the knees. It would take a while before the realization that she was actually with him sank in; in the meantime, he enjoyed all her reminders. Every glance, every snarky comment…each and every indicator of the woman she'd been was something to be treasured.

"Who said you were evil?" she asked skeptically.

"Well, you, for starters," he replied before huffing out his chest with indignation. "And I am bloody evil. Don't you forget it."

"I really said you were evil?"

"Too many times to count, sweetheart."

"Well…" Now it was her turn to shuffle. If he didn't find it so adorable, he might have worked to come up with more shining examples of his inherent monstrosity. As it was, it was nice hearing her defend him for a change…even from herself. "I was dumb," she concluded.

"Dumb?"

"You looked for me for three hundred years. That's not evil."

Spike frowned. "I love you," he replied. There was nothing more to it.

"There's also that," she agreed. "You love me."

"Hate to burst your bubble, darling, but evil can love just as well as anything else."

"Well, then…it doesn't matter." She nodded promptly as though she'd discovered the unarguable argument. "It doesn't matter that you're evil. Your kind of evil is…you're not on par with Hell, Spike. And stop disagreeing with me. It's wigging me out."

He couldn't help but grin. "How's that?"

"It feels like we're on opposite sides. Me arguing for your nonevilness."

"That's because we are," he acknowledged. "God knows I spent months trying to convince you I wasn't what I was…you and myself. But a bloke learns a lot over three centuries."

Buffy licked her lips and fell silent. He took it as permission to continue.

"It began as infatuation, see," he said softly. "Had a dream about you. About us. It's bloody confusing as fuck because I feel like I've loved you since the second I saw you, but even then it was infatuation. The second I realized it is when I started to really fall. All through our last year together…the realer you became to me. And I did change, love. I changed for you…for me. You made me want to be better than I was. A better man. A man you could love." Spike broke away, his jaw tightening. If he wasn't careful he would reveal more than he intended. "But that doesn't matter, does it? I can change who I am, not what. There's always gonna be _this. _I can't rip evil outta me. It's there, all the time. It _makes _me who I am."

An uncomfortable quiet settled between them. Her eyes had fallen from his at some point, and he didn't really care to examine the connotations. There were some things all the sacrifices in the world couldn't change. His nature, and her aversion to it, was among them.

"Nature isn't your fault," she whispered.

Spike blinked. "How's that?"

Buffy exhaled and glanced up, her eyes shining. "Did I punish you for something you couldn't change?" she asked. "I did, didn't I? God, what the hell gave me the right…I can't control what I am. Being the Slayer was never my idea. I was just…chosen. Like you were chosen."

"It's not that simple," Spike interjected.

"Yes, it really is." She shook her head. "I know there are things I don't remember. About you. And me. And everyone. But I do know this…whatever you were or are…whatever I said you were, you came to find me. And you won't tell me what happened to you, so I'm going to assume it was bad."

Spike sighed, flooded with different waves of many-flavored emotions. All at once he was overwhelmed, defensive, skeptical, and more in love than he'd ever been. "It was bad," he said shortly. "But I chose it. I knew what I was getting myself into."

Buffy's brow furrowed. "And I didn't?"

"You didn't know what would happen. I did."

"I had to know it was a possibility, didn't I?" He shook his head, which only furthered her conviction. "I jumped into a ripple of dimensions, Spike. Glory's…her worlds were all hell-worlds. I had to know. I _had _to."

"Rot. You jumped so Dawn wouldn't, because you were so bloody sure she'd snuff it if she did. You did it to save her, Buffy. You jumped to save her." Spike broke away before his temper got the better of him. The last thing she needed was to be scolded on her motives; motives he knew good and well had always been to jump, die, and rest for eternity. No one had ever discussed the possibility of being sucked into a hell dimension; in the last hours, all talk had centered on hell being unleashed on Earth and the necessary measures to prevent it. Dawn's death was the only viable option…or it had been, until Buffy changed the rules.

Buffy exhaled softly, her shoulders dropping in defeat. "I don't understand anything," she said. "I don't know why you would sacrifice so much for me—"

"I can only say _I love you _so many times."

"Most people don't love like this."

Spike shrugged. "I'm not most people, love. Not bloody _people _at all."

"Is that why we weren't together?"

He offered a wry smile. "Thought we covered this. I didn't have the right parts."

Her eyes dropped unceremoniously to his crotch before darting away again, a warm blush tickling her cheeks. Spike tried and failed to smother a grin. Seemed the Slayer had remembered her naughty streak.

"The soul thing, right?" she asked, looking anywhere but him.

"Right."

"And that was the only reason?"

Spike barked a laugh. Of all the conversations to have…

"You don't remember," he said, "and you're confusing what you see here with reality. I'm not a sodding prince, Buffy. Not your white knight, no matter how much I want to be. I've done terrible things. Things I'd…and that's not the kind of person you could be with."

"This doesn't sound like you." She frowned. "I don't remember a lot, but I remember enough to know this doesn't sound like you."

Spike shrugged lazily. "Told you, three hundred years of isolation can do wonders to a bloke's perception."

"So you don't want me to love you anymore."

Choking back his surprised laugh was almost impossible, but he knew from the look on her face he had to treat her question seriously. How she could doubt the answer was beyond him; however, he understood what was crystal bloody clear to him was the next man's enigma. He wasn't sure if that wasn't also a lesson earned with time. Too many of his memories were little more than blurs, and the things he did remember offered few answers.

"More than anything, sweetheart," Spike replied softly. "That's what I want. But it's not that bloody simple, is it? I was gettin' there toward the end…knowin' you'd never love me, knowing what I was and what you…but nothing can stop me from wanting it, just as nothing can change what I am or what I've done. I don't deserve you."

"I don't believe that."

The conviction in her voice was enough to break a man, especially one who had lived with hope and desire as long as he had. "Yeah," he retorted, "you do. And if you don't remember now, you will tomorrow or the day after. Whatever you're feeling now won't last."

Buffy looked away and sighed. Tension held her every muscle hostage. "Tell me what happened."

"When?"

"You know when."

Spike's shoulders tightened. She was banking on him to cave, and why shouldn't she? He'd already told her things he'd resolved to keep to himself. Things he swore would never leave his lips. Well, bollocks. She wasn't getting sod all from him concerning the three centuries of starvation and solitude. He couldn't bloody well take her sympathy, couldn't stand it if the hero-worship in her eyes deepened or turned her gratitude into an offer he couldn't refuse.

"Drop it, Buffy."

"No."

"I've bloody told you, it's not important."

"And I say that's hooey."

His lips twitched. "Hooey?"

She nodded. "That's what I said."

"Buffy…"

"Tell me what happened."

Let no one ever tell her she wasn't stubborn. "It doesn't matter," Spike replied flatly. "All you need to know is I was prepared to sacrifice everything."

She nodded, slightly subdued. "And you did."

"No. Not everything. Not hardly, sweetheart." He smiled in spite of himself. "I kept you with me."

"Me?"

"Every day. You were with me every day."

Buffy smiled at that, her eyes falling to her lap. "I was?"

"Better bloody believe it, love." Spike took a step forward. "Wouldn't have made it without you."

"Really?"

He nodded. "And that is all you're getting from me."

The silence that settled between them was neither comfortable nor tense. Buffy sat, Spike stood, and they didn't look at each other. It could have lasted hours, but it did not. There was still so much to discuss, things that would not wait for the sake of ease.

"I did what you asked," Buffy whispered.

He blinked and met her eyes. "What's that, love?"

"I remember now, and I don't hate you."

An awkward pause settled between them before comprehension dawned, and then he didn't know what to do. She hadn't addressed the intimacies they'd shared at all, not as he'd feared she would. The dreaded pop in the nose had remained absent, as had the accusatory glares and scathing remarks…all of which he now recognized as ridiculous and paranoid. After all she'd experienced, after everything she'd suffered, the touches he'd given her would be nowhere near the forefront of her concerns.

Still, knowing that didn't knock back the need to explain his actions. Buffy understood now, sure, but she might not always. He needed to be prepared for that day.

"I didn't—"

She held up a hand, anticipating him. "I know."

"It wasn't supposed to be—"

"I know." This time he didn't press the issue, placated by her smile. "That's why I wanted to tell you," Buffy explained. "Whatever you thought I'd think…I don't. I don't hate you for touching…for giving me something that wasn't…you took me out of myself."

"Bloody self-serving. I've wanted to touch you for—"

"You seem intent on digging your own grave. Or is it dust-pile?"

Spike smirked. "Just don't want you gettin' the wrong idea of me, love. Everything we've had has been honest. I need it to be honest."

"I don't have the wrong idea of you."

"Well, you don't have _your _idea. All you know of me is—"

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Don't project things you think I should be feeling or thoughts I should be thinking on me. You've been doing it all night, and I…" Her nose wrinkled. "You're acting like Angel."

Now _there _was an insult. "Oi! Take that back!"

At least she had the decency to wiggle. "Well, you are. I know I don't remember everything, Spike, but I don't have amnesia. It's coming back. It will _all _come back…at this rate, probably a lot quicker than either of us expected. And Angel always did this. He assumed what I should or shouldn't do or think. I remember that and it drove me crazy."

"I don't think there's anything you _should _think. I just bloody know you, Slayer." He shrugged. "Not sayin' anything you haven't told me before, or anything you _wouldn't _have told me had…had…"

Her eyes narrowed. "Had…what? Had I not been sucked into Hell for a bajillion years? Well, that world doesn't exist. I can't speak for what didn't happen, and you said it yourself, three hundred years can do a lot to change your perception. Imagine the impact of that times three." She held up a hand. "Even if I wasn't all here the entire time. Your name is on the wall, Spike. I wanted to remember you."

Spike stared at her for a minute, then sighed heavily and lowered his eyes. She was right, of course. He wasn't being fair…and he wasn't quite being himself, but Christ, could she blame him? It would be so bloody easy to get swept up in the day's romanticism. To believe the look in her eyes would be there forever, to believe the feeling she'd put into her hugs was genuine and wouldn't fade. He'd been walking a fine line since he arrived, and when she looked at him the way she looked at him now, he nearly forgot the moment was fleeting, and the next might not be so generous.

And he couldn't forget that, but he also couldn't assume things based on judgment that was now a thousand years old. Time had changed him—why was he intent on thinking it would be any different for Buffy?

"I want this to be real," he whispered. "I can't take it if it's not, Buffy. Being with you, here or anywhere, and getting what you've given me…if that's taken away from me, I couldn't bloody bear it."

Her eyes softened. "I want this to be real, too."

"An' you know it might not be."

"But I'm not excluding the possibility that it is. And even if it's not real, I'm not…however things were won't be the way they _are. _I can't go back to that girl. She's gone." Buffy looked away. "She died in the jump."

"Not completely."

"Maybe not. But enough." A small quiet held between them before her eyes found his again. "Are you going to stand there all night?"

Spike blinked. "Huh?"

She patted the vacant space beside her.

"You want…I didn't know if…after you remembered…"

"I just want to be held tonight."

He smiled, every nerve in his body singing. "I can do that."

The walk across the room likely didn't take as long as it seemed; it all felt like a dream. Everything since that morning at the river…he couldn't quite shake the feeling he was going to snap out of a long, wishful reverie. But when he knelt beside her, she didn't fade; when he wrapped his arms around her, she didn't disappear; when her head found his chest, he didn't jerk awake. Nor did she start when his fingers stroked her arm, or when his lips found her brow. Her heart beat against his silent chest, and every second was his.

"I don't want it to be gratitude," Spike whispered into her hair.

She was still for a second, then, "I know. I don't want it to be gratitude, either. But I do…I do have…I have feelings."

His heart jerked but he didn't reply.

"But I'm smart enough to know it might not be real," she continued. "You came to rescue me. You brought me back to myself. You've sacrificed so much, so yes, I am grateful. I am so grateful I'm…and I don't want it to be gratitude. What I'm feeling. I don't want it to be gratitude." A breath. Buffy shifted and turned her gorgeous hazel eyes to him, and everything stilled. "I want these feelings to be real."

She was so beautiful.

"I do. I really do. It's so good to feel something. I want this to be real."

God, there had never been sweeter sentiment. He was so exhausted on hope and fear he feared he might burst into tears, but he did not. Instead, he shivered and shook his head. "Mmm, Buffy…" Spike pressed his lips to her brow again, unable to help himself. "You have any idea what you just did?"

She shook her head.

"You gave me a crumb."


	26. Chapter 26

**DISCLAIMER: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT. PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION.**

A/N: I truly apologize for the delay between chapters, but rest assured, it wasn't for lack of desire to write. Believe me, I've been writing up a storm. This chapter is really a two-parter, and Chapter 27 will be on its way shortly.

Thank you SO MUCH to all my loyal readers.

**Chapter Twenty-six**

He was having the most wonderful dream.

"Buffy…"

"Don't say anything," she whispered, tightening her grip on his cock. Christ, he was going to melt under her heat. "Let me have this."

It felt so real. So wonderful. Her scent wafted into his nostrils, spiced with arousal so potent he had to bite back a moan. No, scratch that. He didn't have to do anything but enjoy. Dreams were harmless. Dreams gave him freedom denied by reality. Dreams gave him Buffy without all the rules and booby-traps his mind cast up every time he thought he was close to having her.

Her hand pumped and squeezed, loving him base to tip. It had been so long since he'd been touched. So long since a soft female had curled a hand around his cock. God, he'd forgotten what this felt like.

"Forgot…Buffy…forgot…"

"Let me remind you," she whispered. Then her lips were hot on his neck, dotting his skin with sweet kisses. His insides split with light purer than anything he ever hoped to touch. Christ, the strokes of her hand…he hadn't felt this in so long…

"Buffy…"

"I'm here," she promised. "I'm here, Spike."

Spike's eyes flew open, tumbling from a dream. It was real—shit, everything was real. Her small, lethal hand was wrapped around his cock, gifting him with long, languid strokes that both lost and gained confidence with every sweep. She trembled but remained resolute, focused, even under his shocked gaze. If anything, being watched seemed to bolster her.

"Oh, God," Spike whimpered, hips involuntarily rolling into her touch. "Buffy…"

"I got curious."

He peeked down at her, which proved disastrous. The sight of her hand around his cock was addictive. One glance and he couldn't look away. It was so unreal. After centuries of dreaming, yearning, after craving what he couldn't have, and suddenly here it was at his fucking fingertips. If it was a dream he didn't want to wake.

"Curious?" he gasped. "You got…"

"It was poking me. I'd forgotten what it felt like."

He chuckled, ashamed at how nervous he was. "Didn't mean to poke, love. Bloody thing has a mind of its own."

"I like its mind." As if to accentuate that point, she pinched the head of his cock and elicited a sharp gasp from his lips. "I want this, Spike. That's…I just want it."

He'd never heard sweeter words. "Is this gratitude?"

"I don't know," Buffy replied honestly, squeezing him. "But if it is, let it be. Let me be grateful."

What weak resolve he possessed completely evaporated. It had been so long and there was only so much a bloke could take. So he nodded and relaxed, resting his head again as she pumped his length. Every second he expected to jar awake from this forbidden dream, but he did not. Her scent was real, the rush of her pulse, the thundering of her heart, the sweet little breaths she took and the way she tentatively met his eyes…as though afraid of something neither could name.

And when he came, it was Buffy who gasped. The moment was hers, as well.

It was the sweetest release he'd ever known.

*~*~*

He hated to admit he was avoiding the woman he'd endured three hundred years to find, but avoiding her he was. There was simply no getting around it, nor was there any way he could avoid the truth of what had happened that morning. Spike could talk a big game, puff out his chest and swear he was doing the right thing, but the fact of the matter remained that _the right thing _simply wasn't in his blood. He did right by her, all right, but there was only so much a bloke could take…a second more of Buffy looking at him the way she had after he came and he would have had her on her back.

Everything he'd told her the day before was true, or as true as it could be. He didn't want gratitude, and yet he wanted _anything _after having nothing for so long. He also didn't want her to give herself out of necessity or to ease her conscience. Once upon a time, he would have taken anything she handed him and been grateful for it, and while he wanted her more than he'd wanted anyone before, he couldn't pretend sex would be enough.

Fuck, he'd told the ghosts as much in the cave. That had been one of the bloody tests; turn down Buffy's offer to be anything other than what she was. He could have had her body, but that wasn't the part he wanted. The bot hadn't satisfied his need to have her—it had just made masturbating a bit more fun.

So he avoided her, which was bloody difficult when she was the only other person in the world—literally. After the rush faded, he'd dressed hurriedly and disappeared into the unexplored upper area of her warehouse, a place unmarked with names and one he doubted she'd visited often in the last few hundred years. The space wasn't as large as the other place, but he did locate another shower, and after thoroughly scolding himself for not checking here sooner, hopped in and washed the last few days down the drain. He'd lost track of when he'd last showered. Other things had taken precedence to cleanliness.

As it was, cleanliness was next to godliness, and they were nowhere near God.

"I get the feeling you're avoiding me."

Spike about jumped out of his skin, which was right embarrassing. The Big Bad didn't jump, no matter how dusty the title was.

"Christ, pet." he gasped, whirling around and setting his eyes on the blurry vision approaching from the other side of the shower pane. "Ever heard of knocking?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "If I have, I probably forgot. I'm Brain Damage Girl, remember?"

He softened. "Not damaged, Buffy, just lost."

"Right." She shuffled her feet and crossed her arms. "So you've been avoiding me."

"Where do you get that idea?"

"Actually, mainly from you. With the avoidance."

"I'm not avoiding you."

"It feels like you are."

His jaw tightened. He didn't like being easily read, and in circumstances such as these, a lie was more comfortable than the truth. "I'm not."

"Is this about earlier?"

"I'm not avoiding you."

"It's about earlier, isn't it?"

Spike looked at her a second longer, shower water washing the last of the shampoo he'd found out of his hair, and sighed hard. There was absolutely no keeping anything from her. If she didn't pry it out of him, she'd land on a conclusion only she could reach in the first place. The fact she wasn't too off the mark didn't help matters.

"Earlier was bloody wonderful," Spike answered truthfully, shutting off the faucet. "And that's the truth."

"I sense a but."

"No but. It was just wonderful."

"And not gratitude."

There they diverged down separate yellow roads. "Buffy—"

"And even if it was, we agreed to let it be, didn't we?"

Spike huffed. "Can't rightly trust a bloke to say what he means when you're stroking his dick."

"Gratitude isn't a bad thing," she replied, voice lowering shyly at his crudeness. "No matter what happens, I'm not going to hate you. And if I did…even if some wonky demon makes me forget everything you've done for me, whatever I say or feel won't erase the good you've done."

He nodded, smiling a half-smile. "I know that."

"Then—"

"I don't want gratitude, I want _you."_

"I want you, too."

Spike inhaled sharply. She had no idea how those words affected him. "One taste will never be enough for me," he replied. "I've already had more of you than…if we dance this dance all the bloody way, there'll be no going back for me."

"I know. And I know cornering you this morning was unfair."

His lips twitched. "Right. Terrible, that was."

"I just don't want you to avoid me." She sighed, her blurred head swinging southward. "You're kinda my only friend in the world."

There were breaking points, and then there were Breaking Points. This one was the latter. Spike exhaled deeply and slid the shower door open, mindless of his nudity, or the way her eyes widened as she silently, albeit quickly, appraised him. He warned his cock not to stir, but the damn thing had a mind of its own, and very rarely listened to him when Buffy was around. As it was, he'd been semi-hard the entire time her voice tickled his ears. Seeing her cheeks bright and flushed, her eyes deep and aroused…yeah, there was little chance he could walk away from her without a fight.

And Spike wasn't an idiot. He knew he was in a losing battle. Evading advances from the woman he loved had never been in the brochure, and it was damn well against his nature to try and take the high road. A few hundred years back he never would have made it to the shower for having shagged her rotten all night. Time added perspective, and while it could shape a man, changing him was a bit of a stretch. He knew he'd thought of himself as reformed, _changed, _more than once, but there were still so many aspects of who he was that remained the same.

"I didn't mean to avoid you," Spike replied. It still wasn't the truth, but it was close enough. "Christ, Buffy, you're the last person I'd want to avoid…but this morning…I told you last night…"

"And you said I gave you a crumb."

"Baby, you sold me the bakery. I just want it to last."

Buffy licked her lips, her eyes darting to his crotch almost against their will. "Me, too," she said. "But I remember more every minute. I remember things about you that you wouldn't like, and I remember how I felt. It's still…it seems so long ago, and I seem…wrong."

"You weren't wrong."

"Well, it seems like I was."

"We were different people then. For the man I was and the woman you were, you weren't wrong. Don't confuse the Spike in your memories with the one standin' here, kitten. We're different men." Spike frowned. "Well, maybe not different…but different enough to know the difference."

She sighed again; so did he. Then things grew quiet.

"Shower's yours," he said at last, moving to pass her. He thought she might follow him into the hallway, but she did not.

Instead, a few seconds later, he heard the splash of water against a worn tub.

Perhaps her letting him walk away meant she understood.

And for all his campaigning, Spike wasn't sure whether or not that was a good thing.

*~*~*

After finding his trusty pair of jeans, Spike took to scouring their odd living space and waiting for the shower to stop running. He found something he'd set aside what felt like years in the past, though at most it had been three days since his eyes landed on the aged yellow pages a voiceless Buffy had lifted from the cardboard box to make room for pig entrails. The pages had been filled with words scribbled in the same manner as the walls. At the time, barely twenty-four hours ago, they were unreadable. Now it was not. Now, like the walls, they were legible, and he knew what they were.

They were letters.

"Oh, Buffy," Spike sighed, kneeling to the haphazard pile, brushing the top page aside.

They were letters to everyone. Several to Giles, more than half to Dawn, a few to Willow and Xander, even one or two to Anya and Tara, whom he reckoned received less attention due to Buffy's not knowing them very well. And there were letters for Spike.

There were also a few to Angel, the earlier ones proclaiming how she'd tried to move on but had never been able to truly love anyone else, and the latter seasoned with maturity that eased the rage in Spike's chest. Those reflected a more tempered, though at times angry Buffy, who resented the way she'd been treated, resented the fact that the man who was supposed to love her more than anything turned away from her during her greater moments of need. Judging by the density and texture of the pages, Spike estimated a good fifty years or so spanned the time between the early letters and the later ones. If she began writing these within the first few days of jumping from the Tower, the latter letters reflected what a Buffy approaching her golden years would have said. But she hadn't aged at all; when she was seventy-five, she looked no different than twenty.

She had wisdom with which he hadn't credited her. She'd said it, herself. If three hundred years could bring him understanding only age provided, she had centuries on him. Buffy was older than he was. Strange bloody thought, but it was the way things had worked out.

The letters addressed to Spike weighed around the same as those addressed to her friends, which surprised him. A few were abrupt, detailing how grateful she was he'd been there in the end for Dawn, and how she wished she had handled things differently. Others were righteous, admitting his feelings for her while adamantly defending her position. There were one or two reflecting secret confessions that she missed fighting with him, and hated it that the Initiative had robbed them of their fun.

The last one must have been right before things started to get really bad. It looked to be one of the newer letters in the stack.

_Spike,_

_I know it's going to be you._

_Don't get me wrong, I know the others love me. A lot. And I know the hell I'm going through is…well, it's Hell, right? But they're going through a lot, too. I also know time moves differently for me. I mean, we slack off, yeah, but not when someone needs help, and I know the gang wouldn't have slacked off this long. It's probably been…what? Days? A week or so? The idea makes my brain hurt…that all this time nothing has happened up there because you guys haven't dealt with this as long as I have. I know what right now feels like, and thinking that my 'right now' and your 'right now' are two different things kind of weirds me out._

_But I know it's going to be you. It has to be._

_I also know the likelihood of you, or anyone, ever receiving any of the letters I've written over the years is slim to none. Having said—or is it written? I think it's written—that, I need to add that I've meant pretty much everything. Maybe not now, but whatever I felt at the moment was what I wrote. _

_Everything is different now. Things I thought were different. And yeah, a lot of what you did warranted the reaction you got, there were other things I did notice but didn't let you know I noticed. You really do care about me, for one. I get that now. You're a guy who emotes big time, and I should know…I'm pretty much the same. Not that I'll give you a pass for the chaining-me-up thing, which, got to say, isn't the best way to score a date, but I get the passion that makes you do otherwise stupid things. _

_Do it again, though, and, well, ashes to ashes, and all that jazz._

_But let me get to the point. I know it's going to be you who gets me out. Like I said, my friends love me, and I know they'll do just about anything to help, but there's only one you, Spike, and after what I saw you let Glory do to you to protect me and Dawn…well, I just know. They might send you in, but I know. And I don't want to think about how hard it'll be to get to me. I don't think I died, so whatever's keeping me here, whatever doesn't let me cross the river, will want to make sure no one takes me out. _

_So, thank you. I don't know if you'll ever see this or if I'll even be what you find, but there it is. My thanks…and this: I was wrong about you. If I can even think what I think about you, you can't be all evil. At least not the way I thought._

_There it is. I'm sorry for the things I need to be sorry for. You deserved better from me._

_  
Thank you._

_Love,_

_Buffy_

She was real.

The past day and a half, he'd been living in a dream. He'd known it was real all along, but knowledge and understanding were two different things. It was a leap from knowing Buffy was at his side, smiling at him, saying she had feelings for him that weren't gratitude, and realizing it was true. He'd believed her, fuck he relished every second, but there had been something holding him back. Some thread of a fear that she would slip through his fingers again and he'd find himself at the beginning.

She was real, though, and she wasn't going anywhere. She wasn't an illusion; she wasn't going to blink into the void. He'd been thrown, perhaps, by the similarity between the Buffy who had once lived in his head and the Buffy he could touch, but then, he'd always made his inner voice be _Buffy, _not just an artist's rendering. He just hadn't fully grasped it until now.

He could scold himself a thousand times, reassure himself a thousand times, but nothing measured to truly understanding it.

_Love, Buffy._

_Love._

"I wrote letters."

Spike stilled. She was behind him again, tickling his nostrils with her sweet soapy scent.

"I wrote letters," she said again, taking a step forward. "I'd forgotten I wrote letters."

"Found these in that box a few days back," Spike agreed, turning. She wore only his black t-shirt, teasing his eyes with her legs and the hint of what waited for him just below the hemline. "Didn't make sense until you…"

"Remembered. Yeah." She quirked her head. "Interesting reading?"

"Read a few."

"All the ones I wrote you, I'd assume."

"And a few you didn't."

She wrinkled her nose. "Evil."

"That's the way it works." Spike smiled softly. _Love, Buffy _it said. _Love, Buffy. _"Buffy…sweetheart…"

"What?"

One of his personal philosophies had always attested words held little power over action, and he couldn't stand aside anymore and pretend he didn't want what she was begging for. In a heartbeat, he'd closed the space between them, weaving his fingers through her hair as his mouth crashed against hers. Buffy whimpered, throwing her arms around his neck and melting into him, nipping at his lips before her tongue plundered his mouth. She tasted good, so good—rich and warm, wonderfully female and so real he could barely keep from weeping.

"Buffy…" He wrenched his lips from hers, mouth tearing down her throat. "Fuck, you're so warm."

"Ohhh, God…"

"So alive." His lips brushed her shoulder, fingers curling around the hemline of the tee she wore. "You really are alive."

"Spike…"

"I love you."

Her mouth fell open but she didn't respond. Good. He didn't want her whispering words she couldn't mean. Not now. Not yet. Instead, he drew in a deep breath and forced himself to pull away. It was painful but liberating at the same time, breathing in her flushed face, the heavy scent of her arousal dancing off her skin. This was real.

_She's real._

"Spike—"

"Dance with me," he replied, wrapping his arms around her waist before she could think but to respond in kind. And then they were moving together in sync with music that didn't play, Buffy pressed against him, her hips rolling mindlessly against his hard cock, her hands grasping his shoulders as he moved them in lazy circles. It was soft and profound, and one of the sweetest moments of his life.

The fire between them didn't fade, it sizzled.

Standing here, holding Buffy, the world around him didn't seem daunting at all.

"Spike…"

"_Heaven," _he sang under his breath, _"I'm in heaven. And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…"_

Buffy smiled and pressed a hand to his still chest.

"_And I seem to find the happiness I seek…when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek."_

"Spike, make love to me."

He stilled.

"I know it's…it's too soon, but I need…God, I can't even…I just need."

"No, it's not too soon." Spike kissed her lips and stroked her cheek. Reservations were gone. Gratitude or not, he needed her too damn much to give a damn. She was right—things were different now, and even if he couldn't have her for always, he could at least have her for now.

Borrowed time was still time.

And if it was all they had, he would enjoy every second.

**TBC**


	27. Chapter 27

**DISCLAIMER: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXPLICIT ADULT MATERIAL. PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION!**

**Chapter Twenty-seven**

He shook so hard the ground nearly trembled with him, but nothing could stop his course. Sex was something he hadn't given much thought to until a few days ago—until tumbling into a new world containing a Buffy starved for touch. Suddenly he felt like a virgin, shy and self-aware and uncertain how to proceed. It was bloody ridiculous but true, and there was little he could do about it. Especially with the knowledge that no matter how long it had been for him, it had been three times that for her. He had to be careful when all he wanted to do was tear into her body and remember what being alive truly felt like.

That was the demon talking. The man understood the significance of the moment, understood how long it had taken to come this far.

It was Buffy, not a knock off and not some dream. Buffy's skin was beneath his fingers. Buffy's heart beat against his chest, in his ears. Buffy's eyes stared into his. Buffy was with him every step of the way, and the realization of his long held dream was enough to choke him with awe.

"I can't believe this is happening," he whispered, walking her back to the makeshift bed. He wished now he'd had the foresight to drag a mattress to their happy home, but he hadn't and he wasn't about to suggest they leave.

"I can't either," Buffy replied honestly, raising her arms high. He took the cue and drew her shirt over her head, and just like that she was naked. He'd seen her naked before—he'd stood in the shower with her, washed her skin and shaved her legs. He'd been on his knees before her, tongue buried in her pussy as his fingers strummed her clit like a harp. All that seemed eons in the past.

Fumbling fingers found his fly. It took half a second for Spike to realize she was attempting to undress him, her body shaking nearly as hard as his. With a soft smile, he took her wrist in his hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on the pulse point. "Let me worry about that, kitten," he whispered.

"I don't remember what to do," she said, her eyes large. "I'm…I'm not sure if I'm going to be…you know, _good…_"

His smile faded. "Hey now. None of that, you hear?"

"But I—"

"Buffy, do you have any idea how long I've wanted this?"

She laughed nervously. "And that's exactly my point! I have a ton of fantasies to live up to and the last time I had sex, I was nineteen. I'm what, eight thousand now?"

He snickered. "Hardly."

"Close enough."

"You have nothin' to worry about, precious," Spike assured her, kicking off his jeans and closing the space between them. Her naked flesh against his… _Christ. _His cock had been hard since first taking her into his arms and now with it between them, rubbing her stomach and shoving the situation over the border between thought and deed, he could barely cap his need.

"I want to be good for you," Buffy whispered. "I…I don't remember…"

"Please stop worrying about me," Spike murmured, running his hands up and down her arms. "I love you. That's not somethin' I say for laughs, pet."

Worry lines receded, but not completely. "I know."

He nodded and brushed loose strands of hair from her face before leaning in and gently caressing her lips with his. There was little in the world that could not be proven with an example, and the only way he knew to placate her fears was to expose them and show her he meant what he said. In easy seconds, Buffy's argument had vanished, replaced with an eager mouth and wandering hands that roamed his body without reserve. Her hands on his skin alone was enough to reduce a vampire to tears.

It all seemed so unreal. Buffy in his arms. Buffy's lips pressed to his. Buffy's tongue playing with his tongue. Buffy touching him. Buffy's hand gripping his cock.

Spike hissed and broke away, breathing hard. "Buffy…"

"Your eyes…"

He panted.

"They're gold."

"Need you…now."

Buffy nodded jerkily and in a blink she was on her back, his body laying between her legs, his cock nudging her silken folds as his mouth rained kisses on her throat. She tasted…there were no words for her taste. He could spend hours worshipping her skin alone. He'd waited centuries to be where he was now—over indulgence didn't exist.

It was Buffy. It truly was Buffy. His brain simply couldn't accept it.

"You're so soft," Spike whispered, lips dancing across her cheek, dropping a kiss on her mouth before traveling down her throat. At the rush of her pulse, his fangs itched but he ignored the call. She needed no reminders of his monstrosity. Not now. "So soft…"

Buffy met his eyes and smiled, lifting her head to steal a kiss off his lips, her body undulating under his in a gentle rhythm. The slightest twitch was enough to send him off.

"Tell me about the first time you saw me," she whispered.

Spike blinked. "The first time, eh?"

She nodded. "I don't…you told me a lot in the beginning. To jar my memory or…and you might have told me that, but I don't remember. Everything's still a little fuzzy."

"Not sure how much you want to hear, pet. I wasn't there to ask you to a sock hop."

She made a face at him. "I know that, doofus. As it is, I don't take off my stylish boots for just anyone." She glanced down to her bare feet. "As soon as I get them back, that is."

His stomach twisted at that, but he didn't want to focus on the negatives now. Rather, he hooked his attention on something that would keep the mood between them light. "Doofus?" Spike's brows perked, his hips jerking forward so the length of his cock slid between her drenched lips. She pooled liquid heat, and it was his to drink, his to explore, his for the moment, at least, and nothing could take that away.

"Ooohhh," Buffy moaned, arching against him. Her hands had found his forearms, nails digging, her teeth playing with her lower lip in a way that would convince a bloke to change religions. "Oh, do that again."

Now he felt a bit more like himself. A lost bit of swagger returned from nowhere, and he was damn glad to see it again. "Do what, pet?" he replied, sliding his cock against her slit again. "Is that it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Now what's that you called me?"

"Doofus." She didn't even bat an eye. Rather, she had the audacity to poke her tongue out at him.

"I wouldn't say that again."

"Or what?" she countered. "You'll punish me some more?"

Spike smirked, a rush tingling up his spine. "Oh, you like punishment, do you?" he purred, rotating his hips so his cock dragged across her wet flesh.

Buffy's gaze turned heated, shifting beneath him. And just as quickly as it had arrived, the lightness in the mood dwindled in favor of wonder. It was really happening—this was really happening. Buffy's small hands gripping him, her warm body surging against his to a rhythm only she could hear. What she'd said was true—there were thousands of fantasies, maybe millions, all compiled and building toward a crescendo he never thought he'd reach. Loving Buffy was revolutionary, and feeling her skin under his, her warmth burning him to dust, completely eclipsed the world where fantasies lay. No dream could taste so sweet.

"When I first saw you," Spike whispered, dropping kisses along her collarbone, his mouth slowly migrating southward. "I thought, 'Now there's a girl a bloke could get lost in.'"

His mouth found one of her nipples and captured it between his teeth, leaving the other to his fingers.

"Unh," Buffy sighed, running her hand through his hair. "Liar."

"Not a lie," he replied with a grin, raising his head a bit. "Just because I was there to kill you doesn't mean I didn't see what you were." His lips trailed kisses between the valley of her breasts until her other nipple was a slave to his mouth. "What you _are."_

"Spike…"

He had his mouth around her breast. "Mmmm?"

"That feels…" Buffy's head careened back, her hips moving more fiercely against his, needing friction. "Oh, God…"

"You're so wet," he observed, her breast plopping free.

"Ahh…I forgot what this felt like."

Spike smiled. He had, too, but she didn't need to know that. It placed them on even ground. He was about to lose himself all over again but it might as well have been the first time, and it was perfect. Everything was perfect. Buffy's small little gasps, the widening of her eyes, the way she moved shyly, afraid of her own femininity yet empowered at the same time. She was so beautiful and she didn't see it. She never had.

He was determined to make her see—to open her eyes so she knew just how precious she was. Spike's fingers trailed between them, sliding over her mound and parting her slick pussy lips. "You're gonna burn me up," he murmured, fingertips brushing her clit as his mouth wandered further down her belly. He wanted to eat her until she forgot where she was, wanted give her something beautiful in Hell. He knew he could, and he was determined to do it.

It wasn't until his lips danced over her mound that Buffy gasped, fisting his hair. "No."

"No?"

"I don't want…that."

He frowned. "I thought…like before?"

"I don't…I just want…" Her skin flushed. "Spike, I just want you. Please."

His heart twisted. "I want to taste you," he replied insolently, head dipping and tongue stealing a long, delicious lap of her slit. "Please?"

"Uhh…I want you to, too," Buffy replied honestly. "I just…I want you inside me."

The words made him shudder. "I do, too," Spike all but growled. The demon pushed at him, demanding freedom but getting nowhere. There were plenty of demons in Hell—there need not be one here. Not in bed with Buffy. "But you're gonna be tight, love." So tight he was almost cross-eyed just thinking about it. "I don't want to hurt you."

Buffy licked her lips but didn't reply. Then she lifted her hips off the ground in invitation. "Just a little," she said. "I want you."

"Believe me, baby, you're gonna get me." Spike tossed her a quick grin, lowering his head and sucking her clit between his lips without warning. Her answering mewl was music to his ears, her body draining immediately of tension she likely hadn't even realized she possessed. The second he felt her legs go slack, his fingers took to her opening, spreading her to the perusal of his hungry tongue and the prodding of his inquisitive fingers. There was a little resistance upon sliding a finger inside her, and _Christ, _for the way she clamped those magical muscles around him and dragged him deeper inside her, every cell in his body tightened with anticipation.

"Oh yeah," Spike purred, greedy eyes absorbing the sight. He felt awake in ways he hadn't in centuries. He'd made her come several times since his arrival in her Hell, but he hadn't let himself feel much. It had been a moral gray area—pesky conscience—and though he reveled in her ecstasy, observing her for personal gratification had been shoved aside. Credit that to another wisdom time had given him—it had been damn hard, _fucking _hard, but those times were behind them. Buffy was with him now. This was something she wanted, something she'd asked him for, and he wasn't about to deny himself.

"So pretty," he murmured, tapping her clit with his tongue. "So fucking pretty." He paused, eyes roaming greedily up her body until their eyes clashed again. "Any pain, love?"

Buffy hissed and shook her head.

He nodded and slipped another finger inside her. "How about that?"

"Ohhh…good."

"Good, eh?"

"Yes…"

Spike grinned and left her clit with a parting kiss. "I'll come back here later," he promised, crawling back up her body. "But you asked me for something…"

"I want you," Buffy agreed, humming when the head of his cock nudged her wet flesh. "Spike?"

"Mmm?" His mouth was again preoccupied with her sweet skin, nibbling on her chin as his hands wandered over her warm, blushing body. His cock aligned with her opening, the tip nudging inside. _Fuck. _Her heat nearly ripped him apart. "What's that, sweetheart?"

"Be careful."

The words lent him pause. He raised his head. "Sweetheart?"

She smiled shyly. "It's been a long time."

"Are you…"

"I'm ready," she said, raising her head to steal a kiss off his lips. "I want you…inside. Just…can we go slow? I haven't had…haven't done this in a thousand years—literally—and I just…can we go slow?"

"Oh, Buffy…"

"I feel like a virgin…and not the Madonna type. The real type."

He smirked. "Your memory's improving," he noted, kissing her cheek.

"I keep telling you."

Spike's smile softened, brushing hair out of her eyes. "We'll go slowly," he promised, cock gradually easing into her body, and the world around him melted in bliss.

There were moments in life that reestablished, reshaped, and redefined—this was one of them. After so many years of searching, needing, after letting his body rot and die a thousand times over, the sheer wonderment of being inside her erased centuries of pain and united him with truths he'd long forgotten. She was so tight, so wonderfully tight, her body practically untouched, lying with him, surrounded by evidence of her isolation. The world might have been defined as torture, but he didn't know the meaning of the word anymore. Holding himself inside her, feeling her clench and grip, suck his cock as deep inside her as he could fit, he was completely remade.

Dreams couldn't hope to compare with reality.

"Oh God," Spike hissed, bracing his hands on the floor. "Oh, my God."

"Uhhh…" Buffy's eyes were screwed shut, a look of pleasure-laced-pain straining across her face.

God, she was beautiful.

"This all right, baby?" Spike whispered, hooking his arms under her shoulders and burying his face in the crook of her neck. "You feel so good."

His hips moved in small, shallow thrusts, allowing her to get used to him. She fit him like a glove, warm, wet velvet wrapped around his prick, searing his skin and squeezing him into new life. When she didn't reply, he tentatively sped up the pace of his thrusts, drinking in every shade of ecstasy that flashed across her face.

"So beautiful," he murmured, running his right hand up her arm until their palms were pressed together, their fingers entwining. He felt reawakened, reborn, tumbling into a world he'd forgotten. She gripped him so tightly, holding him, suctioning him back inside her with every withdrawal, and he felt pained to leave were it not for the overwhelming bliss of sinking back home.

"I forgot," Buffy whispered at last, her body responding shyly but slowly gaining confidence. "I forgot what this…felt like."

"Mmm," Spike replied, nuzzling her cheek before dropping a kiss along her skin. Her pussy hugged him, stretched and welcomed him, and it was the most beautiful moment of his life. "Tell me."

"Tell you," she repeated. Her free hand found his face, and he wasted no time sucking a finger between his lips. "I feel…split."

"In a good way?" Spike asked, nibbling softly on her skin. His cock slipped out of her for half a second earning him an almost pained gasp before sliding back into her heat. His blunt teeth came down gently on her finger, teasing her before releasing her, and smiling when she smiled up at him. "Tell me this is good."

At that, Buffy grinned wildly and leaned up, pressing her mouth to his as the soft parries of her body exploded into a new rhythm. It wasn't hard, but quicker, signaling the spark of a burn he knew she had to feel. It had been too long for both of them, and she felt too good to last.

They had all the time in the world.

"Mmm." It was a soft murmur; she was too preoccupied battling his lips with hers. Her pussy grew tighter with every plunge, bathing him in her juices. The sound of their bodies smacking together was another thing he'd forgotten—how hot it made him and how real it made everything else. His balls tightened—he'd forgotten that, too: the way his cock grew harder just as he approached the verge of climax.

But he didn't want to come yet. He wanted to see her tumble over, watch pleasure wrap around her and make her tremble until she felt nothing at all except him inside her. Until the pain of a thousand years was a blink in the past and they had nothing left but now.

When she whispered a soft but heartfelt, "It's good," he'd nearly forgotten he'd asked her anything at all. His mouth was everywhere, exploring her throat, nipping at her breasts, teasing her nipples with soft flicks of his tongue, soaking her in and locking her inside a memory no one could take away.

Buffy arched, the sounds clawing at her throat wrapping around his heart. "You feel," she whispered. "Oh, God, Spike, tell me this is mine."

"It's yours."

"Tell me…"

"It's yours, baby. So am I. Always bloody have been."

His fingers slipped between them, settling over her swollen clitoris, testing her with a soft tap to ensure she wasn't too sensitive. When he earned a warm gasp, he seized permission and began massaging her slowly, needing to feel her squeeze and drench and come apart around him. It was too sweet to last. He would have this again.

He would know the bliss of being one with Buffy. There had never been anything like this before—sex was a distant memory, sure, but something he knew he knew. He might have forgotten how it felt, but that didn't mean he wasn't certain it had never felt like this, and that had nothing to do with the years behind him or the uncertainty ahead, and everything to do with Buffy. He'd never yearned for a woman as he'd yearned for her, never felt completely taken over by something he thought he'd never have only to manage a way of earning it.

Her skin, her warm body, her shining eyes, her loving mouth, her pussy squeezing his cock into a next life—all things he never thought he'd have. And here she was, loving him without words.

"I love you," Spike whispered, thrusting a bit harder, a bit needier. Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect little circle, one he couldn't keep from kissing. The strokes his fingers took against her clit became faster—faster, but not harder. Later he could explore just how hard he could take things without hurting her, but for the moment this was perfect. His sort of perfect.

It didn't matter that the words weren't returned. The heat of the moment wasn't the time for confessions of the heart. As it was, she was his. If not forever then for a heartbeat in forever, and he would take whatever she gave.

"I love you," he whispered again.

"Spike…"

"You're close, aren't you, kitten?"

She nodded wildly, hips bucking, pussy squeezing, demanding his return each time his cock pulled away. "Feel…hot…all over…inside…ohh…"

He kissed her and she responded desperately, scratching his lips with her teeth, tongue wrapping around his and releasing small little gasps into his mouth. The hand linked with hers squeezed, his other manipulated her clit and teased her soaked flesh…needing beyond need. She was so close—he _felt _how close she was. Every thrust was shoved back, her wondrous slayer muscles squeezing his cock so sweetly he might cry. It built on, tumbled forward, pressed into a crescendo he needed to catch. Needed to feel. Needed…

"Spike," she whispered against his lips, and then she was gone. Her pussy tightened and drenched, her body breaking down into tremors he'd spent centuries chasing. She gasped and clawed, her eyes widened, her body reared, resisting more and demanding it all at once, and he was a goner. With her muscles pulling him into tomorrow, Spike buried his face in the crook of her neck and sank his blunt teeth into her skin, and everything else fell away. Every muscle contracted, shuddering hard and jerking as he spilled himself inside her.

He heard his name, but he didn't answer it. He couldn't. Instead, he pulled back, licking the place where he'd bitten her and teasing his fangs to the brink of pain. But he didn't want blood…not right now. Blood would taint the moment and it was too perfect to pollute.

She whispered his name again as though lost in a dream, and he kissed her.

If ever he thought he could touch her without needing to keep her, the notion vanished.

"I love you."

She smiled and replied, "I know." And he knew she knew.

That much, for now, was enough.

**TBC**


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N:** Sorry about the delay. The past few weeks have been a little crazy.

As many of you may already know, I recently transformed my short story _Because_ into an original piece of fiction, and have since signed a publishing deal with Loose Id. Due to this, I have had to remove _Because_ from all archives. However, the story will be available in an original format (with a new epilogue!) in November for the list price (which I believe is $4.99).

For updates on publication news, I'd recommend subscribing to my live journal (link in author profile).

In the meantime, I am still writing, but I am going to start working on original stories as well. This story remains my first priority, even if I have lengthy breaks between updates. I hope everyone continues to be patient with me.

Thank you so much to my loyal readers. I value you more than I can say.

**Chapter Twenty-eight**

He had never had an experience like this.

Spike had always known sex with Buffy would be revolutionary, but he hadn't been prepared for whatever had took place. There was a clean distinction between revolutionary and life changing, but bugger all if he knew the difference. Perhaps it was all in his head. The only thing clear to him anymore was the magic of what happened. The beauty of what they'd created.

He hadn't understood the term _making love_ in its entirety until now, as bloody ridiculous as that seemed. He and Dru would go at it slow, and he'd equated lack of speed with tenderness. He'd never seen in his sire's eyes what had positively shone in Buffy's, and even if what she gave him wasn't love, even if it couldn't be love yet, she'd already gifted him with more affection than he could have ever considered.

He wasn't used to his theories being proven—usually it went the other way. But lying with Buffy, her back pressed against his chest, the calm, regular breaths she took humming through her body, he touched something else. Something beyond this or any other world.

His fingers strummed along her belly, his cock hard and ready for another trip to paradise, but he shoved lust aside in favor of the quiet. She'd fallen asleep almost immediately, which amused him for reasons he couldn't explain. Sleep was a state he couldn't chase down; he was too wired to rest, too in need of something he couldn't name to close his eyes, and too in awe of the woman sleeping beside him to close his eyes, lest it be a dream.

When they escaped, when the world awaiting them outside Hell became his again, he didn't know what would happen. Didn't know if the small measure of perfection he'd found in a land of nightmares would remain, but it seemed it would have to. If Hell gave him beauty, what could keep him from reaching that in a place where beauty was supposed to exist?

"Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, tomorrow I'll miss you," Spike murmured under his breath, tightening his arm around Buffy's middle. Her back was against his chest, the small, perfect breaths she stole ricocheting through his every fiber. "You were always the best of me, love."

A small gasp erupted from her throat. Spike frowned and leaned in. "Buffy?"

She wasn't asleep after all. His eyes collided with a soft, sun-kissed cheek, tears spilling down her skin. She didn't move when he brushed damp hair out of her eyes, or when his lips kissed her sorrow away. His heart wrenched. How long had she been awake?

"The best of you, huh?" she asked.

Spike swallowed hard. "The very best. Why the tears, sweetheart?"

"I can't…" Buffy shook her head, twisting in his arms so she was on her back, gazing up into his eyes. "I…I've never…nothing like that…I've never felt that."

He smiled softly, running a finger down her cheek. "You mean you'd forgotten what it felt like."

"No. I mean I've _never_ felt anything like that before." Buffy licked her lips, a shuddering breath racing through her lips. "Not before. Not ever. I mean it, Spike…I know I've forgotten a lot, but I remember a lot, too…and I know that much. Whatever it was…whatever we just did…I've never felt anything like it."

Spike drew in a deep breath. At once, every nerve in his body sang. "Really?" he asked, then winced at the uncertainty in his voice. He hadn't realized how afraid he'd been that it wouldn't be good for her until that moment—until her own insecurities grew mute in favor of his own. After all, there had to be some measure of anticipation. She had to have had expectations going in, knowing what she did, how deep his passion ran, how much he'd been willing to sacrifice, the lengths he would go to.

He'd been a virgin coming to her in many ways.

Then Buffy's hands pressed to his cheeks, her body rolling onto its side. "It was the most…it was more than _anything_ I've ever felt. You…I didn't know anything could feel that way. Especially here."

A warm smile drew across his face. "Yeah?"

"You have to know already. Tell me you know."

Spike nodded, though he only felt part of it. "It was the most perfect thing I've ever felt," he whispered. _"Ever." _

Her brow furrowed. "But…"

"But?"

"You look like you wanted to say 'but.'"

He smirked, his hand falling to her ass, fingers pinching and eliciting a shrill gasp from her round, perfect lips. "You mean like this?"

"Stalling much? What's on your mind?" Buffy worried a lip between her teeth, running her fingers down his chest. "We're a bit beyond being elusive."

"It's nothing."

"No, I know 'nothing' face, and that's definitely not what you have."

Spike exhaled slowly, his head rolling back. She could get the most hardened criminals to confess their darkest secrets just by batting those eyes and doing that thing with her mouth. "I just worry," he answered ambiguously.

"Worry."

He nodded.

"Spike—"

"I know you said you'd let it be gratitude, and if that's all you want then I'm happy to give it, love." A long sigh rolled through his lips. "But it'll never be enough for me, you hear? I'll always want more…always need more. And having you just blew me out of the bloody water. I knew we'd be magnificent, but I wasn't ready for that."

Buffy looked confused, worried, which only made his words more convoluted and ridiculous. Christ, he was a git, but he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Regardless of what the present gave, the part of him used to living in the moment had died somewhere along the journey. Once upon a time the immediacy of her skin would have been enough. Bugger tomorrow, the moment was now, and try as he had to convince himself that was still the way the world operated in his eyes, having had a taste of eternity had a way of changing the landscape. He could push the future away, but not far, and not for long. It kept coming back, lurking around every happy thought and shadowing every smile.

Hell had given him what the world could not. Not just Buffy; the wisdom to understand what he'd lacked before. He could give as much of himself as he liked but without the right reasons, the right motivation or the right insight as to what she truly needed, he was aiming blindly at a moving target.

"We're getting out of here," Spike swore. "Dunno when, but we will. And I just can't help but think…"

"What we have here is all we'll have?"

He hesitated, then nodded.

Buffy licked her lips. "I couldn't do that."

"You don't—"

"If you're asking me about the future, I can't help much," she volunteered, "but I do know a few things. You know that…you read the letter."

_The letter._ He'd nearly forgotten. Spike swallowed hard and nodded. "I'm not afraid things'll go back to the way they were," he said. "But I'll want this, love. Whatever we have here, I'll want it for the long haul."

"What makes you think I won't?"

Spike drew silent at that. He had no response based on reality. "Nothing you've done."

"I'd think not."

"Things change. I know that."

"Yeah," Buffy replied. "But they very rarely change back. Even _I_ know that."

He offered a watery smile, twisting so he was again on his side, head propped on his hand. "I'm a bloody coward."

"What?"

"I just have everything now. Everything I ever…and I've had it before. Never like this, but I thought I had everything once and it went to shit before I could sodding blink." He sighed. "I've never been good at thinking how fleeting a moment is or any of that rubbish. But if the most perfect thing I've ever had or felt took place here…in _Hell…_ what's that say for what's waiting for me out there?"

Buffy studied him for a long minute before her eyes fell to the space between them. "I was wondering the same thing."

"About—"

"About what will happen now that I'm not miserable. Hell is supposed to be Hell for a reason, right? What if…whoever pulls the strings decides you can't be here anymore because you're giving me…" She blinked rapidly to battle away tears, but it didn't take, and in easy seconds she began crying again. "You made me…what happens when they decide I can't have it anymore?"

Spike's jaw tightened. "Rot."

"Spike—"

"I bloody well earned my way in, love. After everything…they aren't tossing me out. And even if they do—_even if they do—_I'll get back in."

A long, rattling sigh rolled off her lips. "What if you can't?"

"I will."

"But what if—"

"Don't think like that."

She gestured emphatically. "I can't help but think like this! I've been living as a…someone I don't know, half a person, or whatever. The idea of never getting out makes me wanna hurl, but I know I can deal as long as you're with me. As long as you're with me, Spike, this isn't Hell. This is something else. A thing I need to defeat, one of our Big Bads or something. And I can deal with that, but don't they know that? Doesn't…whoever…the guardian…."

The thought of the demon put his teeth on edge. "Larry," Spike practically snarled.

"Right. Doesn't he know I'm not miserable? That as long as you're here, Hell isn't Hell anymore?"

"If he does, he can shove it."

"He could take you away from me."

"He won't," Spike said again. "And if he does, pet, like I said…nothing can keep me out."

Buffy licked her lips. "Really?"

"I love you." It was as simple as that. He had nothing else. "I love you. I'll fight until there's no fight left, and then I'll push on, you hear? Until I'm dust, I'll be right here."

She looked at him for a long minute, eyes searching, heart open and in his hands, and he saw something there he hadn't seen before. Something he couldn't name, something he needed but had no words to describe.

Something remarkable and without definition.

"People like us don't get happily ever afters," she mused wisely. "We keep fighting for it, but…I haven't believed in them in a long time."

"We'll get you one," Spike said.

"You can't guarantee that."

"No. And you can't guarantee we'll have whatever this is forever." Spike released a long breath and shook his head. "I'm such a berk, love, I'm sorry. This is bloody—"

"Spike—"

"—ridiculous. I used to be able to shut it out, but fuck it, I can't do that anymore. I just love you."

He met her eyes steadily. She didn't respond, though something in her gaze told him she wanted to, and he felt like a git all over again. She was just as scared as he was. She didn't want this to be a fleeting thing; she wanted permanence as well. She wanted whatever they had to last. He saw it as clearly as he'd seen anything, and it provided him with peace.

Buffy wouldn't fuel him with blind hope, but she wanted this just as much as he did.

"Do we have to do this now?" she asked.

"No," he answered immediately. No, that had never been his intention. He knew they had a lot to suss out but they didn't need to worry about it at the moment. The moment was for living, or at least it had been once, and he was determined to seize it again. "We don't have to do anything right now."

"Oh." She smiled softly, shyly, her eyes again falling to the space between them. "I…I thought maybe you could…"

"Could what, love?"

"Ummm…earlier, I said…you were going…ummm, down, and you…I said later."

Spike grinned wildly, tension rolling off his shoulders. He knew how to handle this part—this part was easy. The rest could wait a while. "You have an itch, sweetheart?"

She nodded, wiggling. "I…I just want…"

He closed the space between them to deposit a soft kiss, rolling her onto her back. "I know what you want," he whispered, falling between her legs, his thick cock resting against her stomach. His lips brushed her cheeks, then kissed her mouth before beginning a slow descent.

Not an inch of her went untasted. He peppered kisses down her throat, hands playing with her breasts before his mouth took over. A woman's breasts couldn't know too much attention, and Buffy's were no exception. She was round and perfect, rosy nipples slaves to a hungry mouth and prisoners of equally hungry fingers. Simply feeling her cradled against his palm was enough to put his teeth on edge, and as much as he wanted to worship her properly, his mouth yearned for something more.

"Love this skin," Spike murmured, pressing his lips tenderly to her belly, hands splayed on her hips.

"It's icky skin."

He frowned up at her. "Says who?"

"Says a thousand years without lotion or sunblock."

"No sun to block."

"Yeah, but I still get all burned and stuff."

"Bollocks. You're perfect." His mouth wormed through her soft, feminine curls until he was pressing hot, open kisses on her soaked labia. "God, so perfect."

"Spike…"

He spread her pussy lips apart, eyes fixing on her small, perfect clitoris. "You're beautiful," he murmured, two fingers nudging her opening. "Could stare at you for hours, love."

She wiggled self-consciously. "Please don't."

"Shy?"

More wiggling. "Impatient."

"Mmm, yeah. You and I have that much in common." He paused, then slowly drew a circle around her clit with his tongue. The moan he earned made his blood sing. "Fuck, but you taste good."

"Unh…"

Spike grinned, slipping a finger inside her. "Like this, baby?" he whispered. "Tell me what you want."

"Ummm…"

"What you need."

Buffy drew her lower lip between her teeth. "Just love me," she whispered. "Spike, please…just love me."

Spike's heart caught in his throat and he nodded raggedly. Love her? It was the easiest thing in the world. Perhaps words, here, were unneeded. He loved words, thrived on them, lived on their power and used them to his advantage at every turn, but there were times when words hindered rather than helped. He was just as content to nibble on her clit as his fingers explored her opening, pumping sweetly into her body, enjoying the wetness that pooled and overflowed. His eyes absorbed every roll of her hips; his ears drank in every whimper that fell from her lips. He explored, played with her. When she mewed her encouragement at the small laps his tongue took around her clit, he altered tactics, wanting, needing to prolong the sensation. He'd had this before—her taste in his mouth, in his throat, he'd drunk from her fountain, but he hadn't let himself experience it fully. This felt like the first time.

The _real_ first time.

"So pink," he murmured, unable to help himself. "So pretty."

Buffy softly murmured her encouragement, but the sounds never translated into words.

He smacked his wet lips together, curling his fingers inside her. "This good?"

She nodded. "Good," she agreed. "Oh, God…"

Spike grinned, his fingers sliding out of her pussy and into his hungry mouth. She truly was delicious—warm and rich, the very essence of Buffy. His tongue was too curious to let his fingers have all the fun, so he turned them over to her clit, carefully rubbing her, mindful that he wasn't too rough, before dipping his tongue inside her body.

"Oh, God!"

"Mmm," Spike purred, licking his lips. "You like that?"

She nodded again, shuffling her hips as though to gain his attention. "Touch me."

"I am touching you."

"No…" She shook her head. "Please. Don't be afraid to hurt. It won't hurt."

Spike looked at her a second longer before nodding, though more to himself. His fingers began rubbing in earnest, harder than before, while still keeping the hungry demon at bay. When her moans resumed, more pronounced, his tongue seized that as permission to continue its explorations, and thrust deep inside her.

"Oh!"

"Mmm, yeah."

He could have done this for hours; tasting her, licking her, drinking her in as her body broke into uncontrollable tremors, quaking and quivering, hands grappling. But he wanted to feel her come, wanted the welcome baptism of her orgasm to wash him away until there was nothing left between them but the pleasure of release. He wanted her to deafen him with her cries, squeeze his head with her thighs, scratch at him and beg to let her feel him inside her again, because _Christ,_ his cock ached and the demon was starved. Leaving her opening with a parting lick, Spike turned his mouth's attention again to her clitoris, pulling her swollen flesh between his lips and giving her a good suck.

And that was all it took. Her body broke into wild shudders, harsh gasps clawing at her throat. And when she looked at him, he felt welcomed into a brave new world.

"Need to be inside," Spike gasped, crawling up her body. "Please…"

Her arms wound around him and held as he pushed himself into her body.

It was the warmest homecoming he'd ever known.

**TBC**


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-nine**

Her hand slid neatly into his as they stepped under the bright yellow sky. She did that a lot now, and every time her skin brushed his he felt his heart lighten. It spoke so much for the words he had yet to hear. It meant she wanted contact as much as he did.

"This a date, Slayer?"

Buffy grinned up at him, squeezing his hand. "Think we're a little beyond dates, aren't we?"

"Dunno. Mighty like to wine and dine you when we get back."

Her nose wrinkled. "In Sunnydale?"

"All over the bloody world, if I have my say."

"I think I could live with that."

"Life's too short to spend guarding the Hellmouth," Spike observed. They drew to a stop at the corner, dually glancing down the proffered paths. Any direction seemed a good one.

"You're just saying that because you want it open to all your demons friends."

A smirk tickled his lips. "Not lying, there," he drawled. "Figure if everything can keep from going to shit for a week, we have at least a couple days in our future, yeah?"

She smiled and squeezed his hand again. Warmth spread across his skin like wildfire. Her response, however, lit him with such hope he had to stop before he got ahead of himself. Her allowance for a future might mean nothing in the long run, but for now, it gave him a glance something he longed to touch. Something he'd wanted longer than he could recall.

"Yeah," she said.

"Where's the best hunting ground?" Spike asked.

"There is no hunting ground," she replied. "I don't…I don't really know how I found them before. It was more…I got hungry, decided to look, and eventually I'd find one. There was no method."

Spike nodded. Fair enough. He tugged on her hand and directed her right.

It seemed strange his first real glimpse of what being in a healthy relationship was like came at such a price. He'd never had anything like this. Waking up beside the woman he loved, talking like normal people about their plans for the day, and leaving to face the world at each other's side. Yes, he had been with a woman he once thought would be his forever, but it never felt like this. And it all seemed so fleeting he feared blinking lest it vanish.

Buffy could slip through his fingers when he wasn't looking. He didn't know what he would do then.

"There's something I've been wondering," Buffy volunteered.

He tossed her a glance. "Shoot, love."

"I get how I got here," she said softly. "I mean…jumping into a sea of hell dimensions might not have been the best idea, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time."

Spike nodded, a shadow clouding his thoughts. It would have been her first thought. Buffy thought of herself last, others first. She always had, ever since running a blade through her honey's gut; she always placed her needs second where the world was concerned. It was as her calling demanded it. Whenever she attempted to do something for herself, she felt the consequences for years. She was expected to give until she had nothing left, and that frustrated him to no end.

She jumped to save the world and wound up in Hell. There was no justification for that.

"I just…you say I didn't die."

Spike nodded. "You disappeared," he answered, shuddering. That solid block of empty concrete would haunt him the rest of his days.

"Just…poof, no more Buffy."

He nodded again.

"Do you think…if I had actually…if I died…"

He stopped short and turned to her, his eyes wide.

"Do you think…" Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. "Do you think I would have gone to Heaven?"

"Without a sodding doubt."

She looked up at him askance. "Just like that?" she asked. "No mulling it over."

Spike's eyes narrowed. "You're serious?"

"I jumped into a bunch of hell dimensions."

"Yeah, love, we covered this. That's why you're here."

"But if I died—"

"How you die means rot for where you end up, sweetheart," he said, waving a hand. "Take yours truly. You really figure my soul's damned because of how my human life ended?"

Buffy's expression turned thoughtful. "I guess not," she said slowly. "Your soul…"

"I can bloody well attest that nancy boy William wouldn't have the stomach for the things I've done," Spike replied, his hands sliding into his jean pockets. There were times he truly missed his duster. "Can't blame him when he wasn't present. My death was just that, you hear? Whatever happened to me before…I like to think my soul went somewhere cushy. Same goes for you, sweetheart. Doesn't matter what you fall into. Body's just a body. The soul goes where it's supposed to go, and you would've gone straight up."

She stood quiet a long minute, her eyes searching his as though seeking something she couldn't name—a hidden lie in his words. She wouldn't find one. No one living or dead deserved rest more than Buffy. She was the purest being he'd ever known, and had it gone another way, had she not disappeared, had there not been the certainty that she was trapped somewhere and banging on the walls for an escape, he would never have given the thought of her in Hell a fighting chance. Buffy outshone Hell. It might take her memories, but not who she was at the core.

She embodied the warrior and the woman. She always had.

At last, the shadows clouding her eyes lifted, and she gifted him with a sweet smile before closing the space between them. "I want to tell you I love you," she said, kissing him.

It was a bloody good thing his heart didn't beat; it would have been under attack. "Do you?" he replied, voice hoarse.

She nodded, kissing him again. "But I won't."

"You won't."

"That's right."

"Because you don't want it to be gratitude."

"I don't want it to be gratitude." Buffy smiled. The world alit in her smile. "I won't tell you until I know it's not gratitude."

Spike offered her a half-grin, which spoke for nothing of how hard his insides trembled. For something he'd wanted as long as he had, he thought there might be more pomp and circumstance, but there wasn't. No bells, no whistles; rather, the heaviness that had weighed him down, trapping him in a place where the road diverged without a map, rolled into something light and wonderful. It might not be love she felt, even she hesitated to give it a label, but that was all right with him. She'd given him something wonderful, flooding him with warmth he'd never before touched, and introducing him to levels of pleasure formerly unexplored.

"Thank you," he said simply. The words seemed so meager compared to what he felt.

Buffy just grinned and kissed him again. He walked on air.

"So," she said, tugging at his hand. They resumed their walk, the streets overly quiet. "Do you have any ideas?"

"On how we're getting out?"

She nodded.

"Many. Each worst than the last." Spike shrugged sheepishly. "Bloody told you, love…finding you was my only priority going in. Didn't really fancy looking up escape routes."

Buffy shivered at that. "I've tried most everything," she said.

"We'll find what you didn't."

She frowned thoughtfully. "You've already tried the way you got in, haven't you?" she noted. "I remember going to the river and you…getting angry."

He snickered. That seemed so long ago. "I had to crawl to get here," he said, then paused. The reasons he had to crawl remained locked away alongside half a dozen other things he refused to tell her. "When I got to the end of the tunnel, it was just…bright and I fell."

"You fell into Hell?"

"There was a cave, see, and a ledge. And when I took you back after I found you, it'd disappeared." Spike sighed and kicked at the dust. "Figure that's the only way in or out now. Just gotta find a way to make it come back."

"The cave."

"Right."

"Where something happened that you won't tell me."

He grinned. "Catching on, Slayer."

"You know I'm not going to let up, don't you?" Buffy asked softly. "I'll keep asking until you tell me."

"Well, fancy it's a good thing you're immortal, 'cause forever's what we're looking at before I spill."

"The things I imagine…" Her voice trailed off, and he did not follow. He didn't want to know what she imagined, or how it compared to the reality of what had happened. The weight of what he'd sacrificed in the cave those three hundred years…or the knowledge he would do it again in a bloody heartbeat if asked.

Spike squeezed her hand. "Stop imagining."

"I can't."

"It's over now. Nothing can come from knowing what went down."

"My appreciation—"

"And I don't need that. I know you appreciate me."

It seemed so weird to say those words and feel the truth behind them. But he did—with every glance she cast his way, with every kiss that graced his lips, with every tentative smile, he felt how much she appreciated him. How much she cared.

How much she…

"At any rate," he said, steering her to the left when they reached the end of the street. "I reckon it won't be long before your friends decide to bollocks everything up."

"I remember you talking about them."

His jaw tightened. "Do you?"

"It was…before I remembered, and I don't remember much but…you were angry."

"Not angry, just frustrated."

Buffy's lips twitched. "With my friends? Almost hard to believe."

Spike sighed. "The last I saw of them," he said, "they were chattin' about what to do since I hadn't come through on my end of the bargain. Hadn't made it back to them with you in tow, and they figured they'd waited long enough. Trouble is it'd only been those three days."

"And you saw this?"

He nodded. "Larry showed me. He wanted me to see how much my…what I'd done meant to them. 'Course, they didn't know, right? They didn't know it'd been three hundred years for me, or a bloody millennia for you. They were just looking out for you, love. They wanted…"

"They wanted immediate results."

"Right."

"Glad to know some things never change." A smile lingered on her lips even if it never reached her eyes. "It's okay. They'll know someday. What you did…what you've done…for me."

"They don't matter."

"Not to you, maybe."

Spike fell silent. No sense arguing with her. The good opinion of her friends, while a nice perk, had never been on his list of accomplishments. The tentative solidarity he'd experienced wouldn't last. It was the sort of camaraderie born out of survivor's guilt, weak but memorable, even if it was short-lived. He might care about one or two of them in his own way, insofar as not wanting them to kick it, but they weren't his priority, and if they cast him out he wouldn't lose any sleep over it.

The only person that mattered was Buffy.

"As it is," Spike continued after a long beat, "I reckon we have a good hundred years or so before we have to give your chums a lick of thought."

Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. "Let's try to be outta here before then."

He smiled. "Couldn't agree with you more."

*~*~*

It took three sweeps of the abandoned city before they encountered a boar, and another thirty minutes to hunt it down and bash in its head. Spike had made a face, hoisted the beast onto his shoulder, offered a snappy comment, and followed Buffy back to the warehouse. From there, the day rolled by with lazy ease and casual conversation, all with the loom of the impending storm weighing over their heads.

The uncertainty of where the future would take them…of where there was to search for an escape.

"How do you know what to do?" Buffy asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor and watching with barely-guised disgust as Spike maneuvered a blade down the boar's belly. Blood splattered, wafting deliciously up to his nostrils. He hadn't been to the river since Buffy regained her memory; in the excitement, he'd forgotten his need for food.

It was all he could do to keep from lapping up the pooling blood. He didn't think she'd appreciate the visual.

"What do you mean?" he asked instead, trying and failing to drag his eyes away.

"You gutted the animal."

Spike shrugged. "Don't they learn this in Boy Scouts?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"You're not a Boy Scout."

"Yeah. Point of fact, neither are you."

Buffy waved a hand. "I still know they don't do this in Boy Scouts. Unless the pack was led by Jeffrey Dahmer."

"Yeah, well, I still bloody think I've earned the Merit Badge."

A pause. "It's okay, you know."

He glanced up. "What?"

"If you want to eat, you can. You know…the blood." Buffy watched him for a long second, shuffling subconsciously. "I mean, gross, but…it's what you need, isn't it?"

Spike stared at her dumbly, which only made her self-awareness more pronounced.

"What?" she asked.

"You've changed."

"Ummm, well, yeah?"

His head tilted, his eyes widening before breaking away at last. The statement seemed so redundant. Of course she'd changed—they'd covered this. They both had changed…he just kept having to remind himself. He'd had time to get used to his own maturing world views; Buffy's would take a little time.

"Just…you never wanted me to eat blood in front of you before," he noted.

Buffy frowned. "I was really dumb."

"No, love—"

"You're a vampire. It's kinda what you do."

"Doesn't mean you have to like it, kitten. Bees sting, but that doesn't mean the buggers don't annoy the piss outta you."

Another long silence settled between them. Buffy's eyes softened. "You've changed, too," she said.

"Yeah," Spike replied.

He didn't know how many times they would have to repeat it before it sank in. He was an old dog, ancient, and she was even older, though time had wizened her in ways he understood but couldn't quite grasp. She was in the right when she accused him of judging her based on a mindset now a thousand years in the past, but God, it was so bloody strange, and it would take a while.

A long while.

But that was all right. They had time, and they had each other. They could learn.

"Spike?"

Something in her voice had changed. Spike paused but didn't look at her. "Yeah?"

"Tonight…do you want…"

He glanced up sharply. She'd turned pink, and God, she was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. He'd thought it before and he'd think it a million times over before he was dust. How she could go from noticing his talents with a blade to thinking of a tangle between the sheets was anyone's guess, but he loved her for it. He loved her demeanor and her shyness and everything that built her as the unique creature she was.

A slow grin drew across his face. "Better bloody believe it, sweetheart."

"Good."

"Anytime you wanna jump my bones, you're more than free to—"

"I wasn't sure."

"You're daft."

"Well, you're the only other person in the world. I didn't want to make things awkward."

Spike's eyes narrowed. "Also in love with you."

She grinned. "Yeah. There's also that."

"You really weren't sure?"

"No. I was sure." Buffy rose to her feet and approached, kneeling when she reached him to brush a kiss across his lips. "You love me."

"Mhmm. And you…"

"I want to tell you."

"But you won't."

"Because it might be gratitude and you and I had a deal about that."

Spike smiled. "That we did."

And the fact that it remained as important to her as it was to him had him burning with hope.


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note**: I really don't have anything to say here that I haven't said on my LJ. The past few months have been terrible for me in terms of writing. I'd open TWotW and just stare at the cursor, and it'd blink at me until I gave up with a sick feeling in my tummy.

It wasn't limited to TWotW; inspiration was in extremely short supply. I do apologize to my loyal readers who have been waiting for an update. I don't want to jinx myself and say I'm out of the woods, but I do have a good start on the next chapter. Right now all seems well—just send me good vibes.

And for the two people left on the Internets who haven't heard…I've been published! My novella, Firsts is available through Loose Id.

**Chapter Thirty**

It seemed impossible to imagine he'd ever had a good night's sleep without Buffy at his side—without her warming his skin, her soft breaths fanning his lips, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest brushing against him. He'd only had her with him for three days, yet already he didn't know how he'd ever lived without knowing how soft her bare flesh felt beneath his hands, or how perfectly her body curved into his. But he had her now.

For the moment.

She was so far removed from the woman she'd once been, and how she would reconcile her growth with a world that hadn't aged left him concerned. One way or another, he would find a way out—if he'd buggered everything up by making a promise, he'd at least have the stones to keep his word. And when he did, when they emerged from this realm into the one where her friends waited, he didn't know what to expect. The Buffy who had jumped and the Buffy who slept in his arms were different women. Buffy had aged internally, wizened beyond even his understanding, and the world she fought to see again had not.

Spike understood a person's capacity for change; he'd experienced it, tasted it, and felt it stretch him into someone else under Buffy's guiding light. And yet for all his talk, matching knowledge to what he saw remained elusive. The Buffy he'd fallen in love with hadn't been so rational and understanding, and while he cherished what she'd become, a large part of him remained blockaded by fears he couldn't explain. She'd told him things very rarely reverted back to the way they'd once been, and she stood correct. Yet he feared it all the same.

He wasn't naïve; when they returned, tension between himself and the Scoobies would likely remain exactly as it always had. He could have whisked her back in seconds and it wouldn't matter a lick, because he was a vampire and that was just the way it was. And that was fine. Spike didn't need their approval anymore than he needed a suntan; the new Buffy, however, needed her friends, and her friends had a knack for rejecting any sort of change.

Buffy was not the woman she'd once been. She hadn't left that girl behind, but she had grown in ways only the aged could identify. She'd been bright before, but now she shone, and his love for her grew exponentially with every breath he stole. Granted, he'd thought her perfect before, but he'd been wrong. Perfect was too limiting; perfect didn't allow room for growth, and this was a woman who needed growth. A woman whose experience compiled upon itself and transformed into a thing of unimaginable beauty.

A woman who slept at his side, naked in his arms. He had her skin pressed to his, one of her legs hooked around his. She slept, and he was the one who got to hold her.

She wanted to say she loved him, but she hadn't. That was all right. He hoped she wouldn't. In Hell, everything felt falsified.

He supposed he would only believe her when they stood on the surface, when the battle was behind them and she didn't need him for companionship any longer. He'd want the words then.

Not a moment sooner.

*~*~*

Once upon a time, it would have taken a good walloping or a loud shriek to stir him from sleep. Dru could whisper all she liked, but nothing worked quite as well as the feel of her nails burrowing into his skin or her piercing wail shaking the walls. Strange the things he remembered when sucked into the gray area between sleep and reality. Dru was far behind him, a memory cast aside, a stepping stone in the journey which had led him to the place where he now slept. Yet it was where his mind led him when the sound broke through the quiet still of night, only to be shoved aside the second his eyes flew open.

"Buffy?"

She was curled onto her side, shaking hard and practically clawing her way through the floor. "No…"

Spike bolted upright, curling a hand around her shoulder. "Buffy! Buffy, it's—"

"No." She swatted at him. "No! No, please…"

"God…Buffy, wake up. Wake up, sweetheart."

"Don't leave! You can't leave!"

"You need to wake up. You're dreaming, love. You're—"

Her eyes soared open, fought through the darkness before finally latching onto his, and before he knew what was happening she'd launched her naked body into his arms, pulling him into the fiercest embrace he'd ever known. "Oh God," she gasped. "Oh God, you're here. You're really here."

"Of course I am, love."

"But you were gone."

Spike exhaled deeply, pulling her into his lap completely. This was familiar—this he could handle. Caring for the women in his life had always come second nature…he just wasn't used to the women needing caring for coming in Buffy's package, even now. Even after everything they'd been through, everything he'd seen and done, every step they'd taken together to get where they were. She was the epitome of strength and resilience; he'd never known anything to best her. It was one of the reasons he loved her so much.

"Not gone," he murmured, thumb rubbing away a tear. "Right here. It was a nightmare, love, that's all."

She shook her head hard. "It felt so real."

"It wasn't."

"But it could be." She sniffed and pulled away, wiping her eyes. "It could be. Don't you…I could wake up any day and you'd be gone."

"I've told you, that'll never happen."

"You can't know that. This world isn't ours. It's—"

"I got here. Not going anywhere." He palmed her cheek and kissed her tearstained lips. "We've been over this, yeah? Rip me away, I come back. Bad bloody penny, love. You'll never get rid of me. Thought you'd've learned that by now."

Buffy met his eyes and conceded a small grin, though there was little feeling behind it. "It just seemed so real," she whispered.

"Could be because this place is a bloody nightmare already. Yours, point of fact."

"That might have something to do with it." She licked her lips, her gaze breaking away, a long shudder ripping through her body. "I felt so lost."

"You're not."

"Yes, I am. We both are, and we don't know if we'll get out."

Spike grabbed her chin, forcing her eyes to his. "I know," he said firmly. "Eternity's a long bloody time, and where there's an in there's an out. We'll find it."

"And if they take you away before then?"

"We'll find it."

"What happens if we don't?"

"Not an issue."

Her eyes narrowed in the patented Summers look he knew so well. "Spike, get serious. We might never get out of here…and if we do, it won't be tomorrow. We could be here for…well, I would say years but it's already been that and—"

"Buffy."

"I ramble when I'm nervous, and right now, I'm well past nervous. I'm terrified. The nightmare—"

"Was a nightmare. Nothing else."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. I'm not going anywhere."

"And if we're here forever?"

"We won't be. Can't keep me down, love." He shrugged a shoulder. "Even so, I'd figure it doesn't matter too much. I just know I'm not going quietly into that good night without throwin' down for a brawl."

The shadows playing across her face began to draw away, though not as quickly as he would have liked. "And what happens until then?" she asked softly.

"Well," Spike replied slowly, roving a hand through his hair. "Way I see it, we start combing the town for exits during the day."

"And at night?"

"Pork recipes, of course."

Buffy's nose wrinkled. "Pork recipes?"

"Well, we might be here for a while. Figure it can't hurt to experiment a bit with what we got." He offered a small smile but it died just as easily. "I mean it, sweetheart. Every bit. Larry and company decide to toss me out and I'll find another way in. Doesn't matter if it takes one year or a thousand."

She smiled humorlessly. "Maybe not to you…I've already had my fill."

"Yeah, well, that's why I intend to have you sleeping in your very own beddy-by before they think to check up on us." His eyes dropped to her lips, his fingers wandering across her cheek. "At least that's the plan."

"The plan, huh?"

He nodded, eyes still fastened on her mouth. "Until then, I'm happy just to sleep beside you."

"Sleep…"

"And…other things…"

He'd always told himself if he was lucky enough to get close enough to touch her like this, experience her like this, he would savor every minute, every second, every flash of whatever sparked between them. And in his own way, he could visualize every move, but he wasn't used to her lips nearing his or the gentle wonderment that embodied her kisses. How warm she was, how tender, how alive…

How perfect her tongue felt when it caressed his. How her precious little whimpers lit his insides with fire that burned too sweetly to quench. How he'd traveled miles and sat through years of emptiness to touch something so perfect. Now he was here—here with her soft kisses and her warm eyes, her words that were entirely her own but somehow still fit the mold of the dreams he'd so often entertained. It was almost a dream but somehow maintained reality, and it was his.

All his.

"All mine," Spike murmured, his hands settling on her arms and pulling her closer to him. Her lips whispered against his, squeezing his still heart. "Mine…Buffy…"

"Yes…"

The world shifted so effortlessly when she touched him. Time and space became meaningless; how it was he could be sitting with her, stroking her cheeks as she made love to his mouth with hers to shifting effortlessly so he lay between her legs. The heat emanating from her center nearly ripped his skin off the bone, but the burn felt so good he didn't think to protest. She enveloped him, embraced him, made him more than what he was with every touch.

"Spike…"

God, he loved the way she said his name. How she took such a violent syllable and made it sound like poetry.

"You're slick," he replied, hips jerking forward, his cock sliding rhythmically between her wet pussy lips. "Already, precious?"

Her teeth found his earlobe and tugged. "Who needs foreplay?" she asked softly, her hands traveling down his torso until she had his ass cradled in her palms. "Mmm…"

"What's that, sweetheart?" He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Want your Spike?"

"Yes, please."

A long sigh rolled through his lips. It was the _please_ that did it. Buffy, his warrior, uttering such a telling phrase. Asking him of anything, knowing full well it was already hers. Her voice tickled his ears, sent ripples of excitement through his skin, and made his insides spark with life he'd forgotten. His cock nudged her slippery flesh, parting her folds before beginning a slow, wondrous slide inside her tight haven. He could live a day or until the world spun toward its end, but this was something he'd have forever. The memory of Buffy. The feel of Buffy. Buffy making his skin sizzle. Buffy's tight pussy clamping around him, drawing him deeper, sending him spiraling down a twisted path of wonder until he found himself on the receiving end of something he thought he'd never touch.

A soft gasp rang in his ear. "Oh…"

"Bloody hell," he murmured, nuzzling her throat. "Grip me like a glove, you do."

"Say you're…say…"

His lips peppered kisses across her skin until they hovered above hers. "I'm here," he promised, rolling his hips and dragging his cock out of her just slightly before he sliding back home. "Not going anywhere, love."

"Tell me you love me."

Spike kissed her, his body finding a steady rhythm. He couldn't wait. Not with her muscles strangling him to new life, not with her hot breaths teasing his lips or her wide eyes searching his. There were no secrets here. Nothing kept in the shadows, no epilogues or post-scripts. He gave what he had and kept nothing at bay.

"I love you," he whispered, his left hand slipping down her body until he had her soft, round hip cradled in his palm, leveraging her into his thrusts. "God, Buffy, you have to know that."

"I know." She smiled against his lips. "I just like hearing it."

Spike met her eyes and returned her grin. God, it felt so fleeting—all of it. Things he'd dreamt, things he'd only imagined, things locked behind a door he'd never thought he'd get to open. Feeling her surpassed anything he could have imagined—feeling her changed everything. No going back…not from this. Not from the awe of knowing how she felt, how she writhed, how she clawed and grasped and held him captive in that soul-sucking gaze of hers. The one that had kept him company for so many empty years—the voice he'd entertained in his head when the world around him fell silent.

It was enough to make hardened demons fall to their knees and pray.

"Want this," Spike murmured, biting at her lips, body rocking hard against hers. She felt divine. Holding him, pulling at him, dragging him back inside her warmth every time he dared slip away. She squeezed him like she wanted to make him a part of her—like the only way to keep him was to lock him inside her skin.

"Me, too."

"Always, Buffy. Can't take it for just a test run."

"Oh…"

"So long…wanted you so long…"

"I'm here," she whispered, pressing her hand to his cheek. It seemed so strange she felt the need to reassure him when she was the one who had been lost so long, but that was Buffy all over. The protector. Wrapped in strength and thinking of those lucky enough to warm her heart before she gave herself a second thought.

The wealth of words upon which he thrived seemed so trivial now, with her pussy wrapped tightly around his prick, her sweet juices bathing him in heat possessing more fire than a thousand suns. Every plunge chipped away at him, tore him apart and pieced him together again. And through each second, she remained with him. Buffy's eyes absorbing, Buffy's nostrils flaring, Buffy's lips rounding, Buffy's chest heaving, Buffy's hands clenching, Buffy's tongue caressing. Buffy all around him, touching him, drawing him in deeper, sucking him in and squeezing him so tight the world around him began to blink out.

The thought he might not have this one day…

"Mine," he murmured, thrusting hard. In and out, in and out, her vaginal walls wringing him, grasping him, and driving him out of his mind. "Always."

Buffy nodded. "Yes," she whispered. "This is ours."

"Ours…God, you feel…"

"Chase the bad away."

"Mine."

He stole a kiss before dancing over her chin, dipping down her throat until the hum of her pulse vibrated against his lips. The monster roared and his heart clenched. "Buffy," he whispered, the bones in his face shifting before he could help it. His fangs skimmed her soft flesh. "Buffy…I need…"

Her eyes met his, and if she was surprised to see a demon looking back, she didn't show it. Instead, her hand found his cheek. "It's okay," she gasped.

"Your blood…"

"Take it."

The words couldn't be real. A fabrication of desire melting the barrier in his mind so he couldn't tell the difference between fiction and reality anymore. But with her pussy around him, her eyes shining up at him, and her blood whispering so close to his mouth, he couldn't be bothered to care. Not now. He'd traveled so far, lost so much, and he wanted to taste her so badly. Taste her…Buffy…his slayer.

"It's yours, Spike," she whispered softly. "Take it."

He buried his face into the crook of her neck and licked a soft stretch of flesh. And that was all he could manage before he sliced his fangs into her beautiful throat and drank.

And Spike exploded—he was sure of it. There was no way he could keep his pieces together for as violently as they shuddered and cracked. He felt it, felt his cells pulling apart, felt his body breaking and crumbling against her, warm ambrosia stinging his insides and gluing together everything in him that had ever been broken. He felt her tremble and gasp, felt her tighten and drench him with her release, welcoming his own into her warmth. And yet he couldn't tear himself away from her throat—he knew he should, he knew he couldn't take much, he knew she needed it more than he, but in that one second he allowed himself to be selfish. Allowed himself to take what he wanted, needed. Allowed him to take _Buffy_…because at that moment, for that wonderful instant, nothing else mattered. Not the impossible task of finding a way out or the journey home afterward. Not the fear of what would happen when they stood again on solid ground or what he would lose when the world around them was theirs again.

Nothing mattered, because right now, this was his.

"Mine," he whispered, pulling back at last and licking the wound. His every inch tingled. "This is mine."

A beat. She didn't respond.

Another beat, this one panicked. Spike raised his head, shaking the demon away. "Buffy?"

She met his gaze without hesitation, but he didn't let himself relax until he noted the strength in her eyes. The strength and…tears? Oh bugger, he hadn't meant to…

"Buffy…sweetheart, I didn't…I shouldn't—"

"Oh God," she whispered, and every inch of him stilled. There was something he'd never heard in her voice. From anyone. "Oh…God…"

"Buffy?"

"Oh God."

Whatever was in her voice had stretched to her eyes now, and its power rendered him weak.

But there was no time to examine it. The next second, something crashed hard above them, and the ground began to shake. For a second Spike thought his head had spun into a post-coital slumber, high off Slayer juice and ready for a good week's rest. But that wasn't it—no, this was something else. Whatever had harvested her voice and moved to her eyes lived now in the floor, moving…moving…and sending hard tremors into the world around them.

"Oh God," Buffy said again. This time, however, her eyes were on the ceiling. "What is that?"

Spike didn't answer, though something inside him knew, even if he couldn't believe it.

"Spike?"

The ground whined beneath them, and in the distance, he heard something rip apart.

Whatever doubt was left died. He knew without question. He knew. He didn't know how, he couldn't _fathom_ how, but he knew.

Something had happened. Something had changed.

The world was about to end.

**TBC**


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N:** I'm immensely pleased with how quickly this came to me, all things considered, and I'm _aiming_ for another chapter before Christmas, but that might be a bit optimistic. I'm also toying with Christmas fic ideas…though I'm beginning to think it's a bit late to try. I'd really like something fluffy, to counter the angst, and something…all-humany. Don't have any solid ideas yet (though a lot of really good suggestions!) so that may or may not come to pass.

Thanks so much to my betas for their quick turnaround, and MASSIVE thanks for the amazing response to the last chapter. I was very grateful to see that this story still had readers. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

**Chapter Thirty-one**

He'd never attended an apocalypse of any sort. Sure, he'd had front row seats to a few contenders, but fate, usually accompanied by the Slayer, had a way of intervening and making sure all remained as it was. Acathla hadn't opened, the Hellmouth remained dormant, and Glory, despite her best efforts, never fully realized the truth behind 'there's no place like home.' Therefore, Spike wasn't entirely sure what the end of the world sounded like. He remembered the screams of the inter-dimensional rip—remembered the painted sky and the tremors rocking through the ground. He hadn't been awake through the full of it, but he'd seen enough.

And it felt like this.

"What's happening?" Buffy demanded, her hands pushing his shoulders to coax him up, but he was already gone.

Spike cast a wary glance to the warehouse entrance. The yellow sky had turned purple, angry, menacing storm clouds rolling toward them with fury beyond anything he could reconcile. "It's happening."

"What?"

"Our cue," he explained, snatching his jeans off the floor. "Find something to put on."

"I don't understand."

"We don't have much time."

"Much time for what? Enough with the vague. Sentences are your friend."

Spike found her eyes, a wealth of emotion pressing against his chest. There were no explanations; he had none. All he knew was Hell was folding in on itself, and though there was no reason why, he wasn't about to sit around and chat. "If we're leaving, it has to be now."

Buffy inhaled sharply. It was all the prompting she required, even if the confusion lines marring her face refused to recede. The tremors below them grew stronger, and perhaps she understood, then, that there was no understanding. In less than a minute, she had donned his t-shirt and a pair of sweats, and then they were running—running out the doors of the warehouse and under the angry sky.

There were times when words themselves superseded their value—when communicating thoughts or actions became thoroughly useless, as though the script had already been penned and all that was left was for the actors to play their parts. It felt like a dream, a staged dream plotted so perfectly that was rendered futile. The second his feet hit the ground, he knew where to go. The only place to go—the only way out.

"The river," Buffy said, but she didn't need to say it. And when she looked at him, he knew she understood.

*~*~*

The ground splintered, spawning thousands of webbed cracks. In the distance, behind the skyline of the fallen city, a black wave of nothing lumbered over the horizon, conquering whatever it touched by swallowing it whole. It left nothing behind, because it wasn't moving; no, it was growing. Growing upon itself as the sky hardened and chipped; as pieces of debris came barreling toward the shaken ground. The black cloud consumed, devoured, and engulfed landmarks Spike's eyes had come to know with frightening intimacy over the past few days, as though the world had always been his, as well. He wanted to stand and look but his senses got the better of him.

The river. They needed to get to the river.

The river was the way out.

"It won't be there!" Buffy screamed. She was ahead of him—of course she was. His warrior, his slayer. "It won't be there!"

Spike didn't answer. He knew it had to be.

_One way in. _

"It won't be there!" she insisted again, the hopelessness in her voice making his stomach twist. He knew what she meant, of course; she'd told him about the river. About her numerous attempts to cross it, and how the world always cruelly placed her back at the start. He knew, yet the rules had changed. One way in, one way out. Right now—this time—it had to be there. It _had_ to be there.

Wind ripped across his face, pulling against his skin as the black cloud drew nearer.

The end of the world. He never thought he'd see it.

He hadn't thought it'd be like this.

"Spike?"

The panic in her voice would have brought him to his knees any other time. The scared girl he'd rescued from the nightmare was back, and she wouldn't do either of them any good. He needed her strong. He needed her to be the Slayer now.

"Right behind you, love!"

"What's happening?"

"Don't turn around, whatever you do. Just keep runnin'!"

A waft of blood smacked his senses, and then the river stood in view, just as he knew it would.

And just as he knew it would, the ledge from where he'd crawled to freedom jutted proudly over the waves of red, at least twenty feet off the ground. He remembered the fall being greater, but that didn't matter now. All that mattered was getting there—inside the cavern, back into the cave where he'd spent three centuries waiting to get into a world now falling in upon itself.

"Oh God," Buffy panted, coming to a fierce halt at the riverside. "What the hell is that?"

"That's our ticket out," Spike retorted. He paused just long enough to place a hand on her shoulder, and though it didn't last, he felt a ripple of calm ease through her. As though she needed physical reassurance he stood beside her. "No time to get dainty, love. Ladies first."

Apparently, she didn't need encouragement. Buffy slammed into the river, disappearing under a wave of blood. She moved effortlessly, seemingly mindless of the weight against her, the way the tide pulled at her skin and attempted to drag her downstream. Spike watched her just long enough to know he needn't worry before diving in after her.

He'd never before truly appreciated how thick blood ran. He remembered falling into the river, sure—remembered his insides rotting inside out, starvation itself manifesting into an entity that nested in his bones, gnawing its way through the soft tissue of his exterior until it managed to turn his mind against itself. Oh yes, he remembered that. Only days had passed since then, even if he felt it could squeeze in a lifetime or two between first seeing Buffy and Buffy coming back to herself.

Just a few days ago he couldn't have fathomed plunging into a blood river without attempting to devour every drop. Now, his arms fought the flow, his eyes fixed on the blonde ahead of him. He didn't relax until he saw her pull herself safely from the tide's grip and onto the crimson shore. He likewise didn't realize he'd hit solid ground until his legs shook.

"I made it," Buffy said. She looked like a doomed heroine from a horror flick, her skin smeared with blood, her hair soaked. Her eyes fell over the river, toward the looming cloud of black rolling toward them with alarming velocity. "I made it."

He nodded jerkily and made a play for her arm. This wasn't the time to reflect. "Slayer…"

"I tried…God, I tried so many times…"

Spike nodded again. "I know, love. We got to keep moving."

"I just…so many times…"

_"Buffy!" _

She snapped back to him then, blinking. And without another beat, the fog behind her gaze lifted, and she was with him again. "Where?" she demanded, turning as she spoke. The question did not demand an answer; she knew where to look.

"Move," she said.

No need to tell him twice. Spike sped to the stretch of rock wall, and side by side, they began to climb. His body had once been accustomed to exertion—a romp in the cemetery, a brawl in a demon bar, an apocalypse to avert, he'd never been short on action. The last few days had slowly reintegrated him into the lifestyle he'd left without knowing, but sparring Buffy and hunting wild pig just didn't have the same ring as run for one's life. It all felt very familiar, finding foot holes, hands grappling for a nook to fortify, all the while keeping his eye on Buffy even if he knew she handled herself better than anyone ever gave credit.

Still, with his veins red hot from the dose of slayer blood, Spike couldn't deny the rush. The tingling in his belly, the contented purr of a demon that thrived on the rush of the too-close-to-call moments, the sensation of death nipping at his heels. He'd forgotten what this felt like.

Buffy reached the cavern mouth first, and he wasn't surprised. Even juiced, he couldn't hold a candle to her.

"Spike!"

"Almost…"

Her eyes rose to the distance, widening. "Oh, God. Spike, hurry."

He didn't realize how close they'd cut it, really, but it made sense. These things always ticked to the very last second. When he was just within reach of the mouth, a breeze of cold swept through his body—cold unlike anything he'd ever felt. Cold that shook the bone before slicing it in two, cold that mashed shattered pieces into powder, cold that pulled and tugged. Cold that wanted him, wanted to consume, wanted to waste everything in its path. A vacuum of nothing, dragging the world down with it. The black cloud, he recognized, was the nothing, and it was upon them. It had swallowed the world whole and it wanted them, too. And for a second—a fractured second—the adrenalin switched off and everything became still.

There was peace in the cold. After all, nothingness allowed no screams.

A warm hand found his wrist, jarring him back to himself and spearing his insides with heat. Buffy. His eyes found hers and used them as anchors, dragging him the remaining distance out of the world the Slayer had created.

She led him where the cold could not reach.

"I've got you," Buffy whispered. And she did.

"I know," Spike replied. And he did.

*~*~*

He remembered this.

The enclosed rock walls, the narrow pathway, the feel of dirt beneath his feet. It had only been days since he last inhabited this space. Battered and broken, starved and raw after three centuries of barely existing at all, he'd crawled to freedom. He'd crawled toward a light now extinguished, toward the promise of a lady he'd braved the underworld to find.

The darkened spots on the ground…that was his blood. It had only been days. Only days.

Spike had never considered himself claustrophobic. Not until that minute. Now, standing in the familiar mouth of the cave, his chest tightened and he warned his overly ambitious lungs they needn't bother gulping down air.

The space. The cave. Years he'd spent here. He'd lived more of his life within these walls than anywhere else.

_No, that's not right. _

Spike inhaled sharply and met Buffy's wide, confused eyes, and the screaming in his head quieted. Time didn't matter rot—all that mattered was her. And here they stood, on the opposite side of eternity in the only escape hatch he knew existed. What had happened remained beyond him, but for that second, that one precious second, he allowed himself to shove aside the whys and the hows for the miracle of certainty.

The way out. Somehow, they'd unlocked the way out.

What the bugger had happened?

"Where are we?" Buffy asked, her voice hoarse. She sat huddled on the ground, arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes bouncing from one corner of the cavern to the next.

His heart went out to her. Everything had happened so fast—so fast. One second nestled in each other's arms and the next running from a force greater than he could comprehend. In a blink, everything she'd known for a thousand years had disappeared. The fact the world was a nightmare, in that sense, didn't matter. On some level it was even expected. And even though the light in her eyes betrayed her timid joy, the shadow remained larger. The shadow betraying the crushing knowledge that nothing was ever as simple as it looked.

"The cave," he said softly.

"The cave?"

"My home sweet home, love. For three centuries, anyway."

She frowned at him for a second before comprehension dawned. "Oh," she said, giving the space around them another cursory glance. "Oh…God."

"Slayer—"

"This…" Buffy inhaled sharply and climbed to her feet. "I don't understand."

"Understand what, ducks?"

"What happened. How we…any of it. How this was…_here_…what the hell just happened, Spike?"

He cast a tired glance to the doorway to her hell. It hadn't sealed off as he expected, rather the emptiness that had consumed the world now kissed the rocky mouth, a Venus fly trap waiting for prey. A road to nothing deceptively costumed as a black wall. "Something changed," he said simply.

"We were just talking—"

"I know."

"I don't understand. How…I tried _so many times._ I tried…and…God." She broke away, pressing the back of her hand to her eyes. "What changed?"

Spike swallowed hard. The answer wasn't buried under mystery, and he reckoned she knew it just as well as he did. It just didn't seem possible—it didn't seem real. None of this did. Not the walls around them or the bloodstains on the ground, or any sense fed to his eyes and nose telling him they had made it out. It couldn't be real. He'd broken too many rules for the walls to fall that simply. There had to be a catch or a punch line waiting nearby. It couldn't be as simple as biting her. It couldn't.

Yet here they stood.

"Spike?"

Her voice had lost its edge. When he met her eyes again, they appeared as saucers, wide, trembling, and filled with so much pained hope it nearly crushed him.

"This is real, isn't it? I'm not…this isn't a dream?"

"No," he replied. "I woke you up, remember?"

Buffy licked her lips and nodded. "I dreamt you were gone."

"That's right."

"It was…" She broke away again with a shudder. "I remember waking up. And then you were there and it was okay."

He nodded.

"Then we…" The frown deepened with concentration. "But…that wasn't new."

"The sex?" Spike's lips twitched. "I'd bloody well hope shagging me isn't so forgettable you'd need me to remind you—"

"Spike…"

"Just saying, fragile ego here."

She rolled her eyes. "Somehow I doubt it."

"You'd be surprised."

"I was just trying to figure out what changed. What we did different. That we hadn't…" Her gaze brightened again; he practically saw the pieces fall into place—saw comprehension shine through uncertainty, and those last few seconds before the world unmade themselves weave together again. Her hand stirred from her side and found the fresh bite mark on her throat. It was an easy detail to forget, he supposed, even if he knew it hadn't been far from her mind. With the intensity of what had just inspired, just about anyone could overlook details while seeking out answers.

Anyone but a vampire.

"Oh," Buffy said simply.

Spike kicked at the ground but didn't say anything.

"You bit me."

He nodded.

"It…oh, God…"

"Buffy…"

She didn't say anything, and he found his stomach tightening with a familiar sensation—a desperation for her to understand something about himself, something flawed and rudimentary, something he couldn't change. Vampires craved blood. Always had, always would. But blood shared between lovers transcended description in its significance, and the fact that she'd opened herself up to him, even in the heat of the moment, meant the world.

He didn't want to hear now that she regretted it. A foolish fear, perhaps, as he was damn near convinced her blood had opened the door between worlds and she would have done anything to escape, but a real fear nonetheless.

"I remember," Buffy murmured, looking up again. "Oh, God…"

"Look, I didn't mean for it…I didn't mean for it to…if I'd been thinkin', it wouldn't have happened, yeah? It was just at that moment…with you…hard to resist." Spike offered a half smile and shrugged a shoulder, slightly subdued at the confused look on her face. "But I think the blood's what did it."

She nodded distractedly. "Got us out."

"Right."

A quiet beat settled between them as she considered his theory before breaking with a shake of the head. "No."

Spike frowned. "It's always the blood, love."

"I've bled too many times to count for it to be that simple, and that's not even the point." She drew in a deep breath, fingers still absently stroking the freshly pricked skin at her throat. "No…it was something…it was something else. Something went through me. I felt…God, I'd never felt anything like that."

Every muscle in his body tensed, his mind pulling him back to the look in her eyes. The pure, awed shimmer that echoed in her voice. The way she'd gasped and clung to him, the way she'd seemed on the verge of tears and laughter, and not in the manner with which he was familiar. It had been so brief and his nerves had been strung between ecstasy and fear, but he remembered the look on her face and the reverence in her words. He hadn't known what it was—he still didn't—but it had moved him like he'd never before been moved.

Was it possible she'd felt something tangible through his bite? That whatever she felt had torn the world apart?

"What was it?" he asked softly.

She didn't respond. Instead, she said, "You did this."

"Huss'at?"

"You. It was you. You…I felt it, and it was because of you. That…whatever that was, it's what made this happen." Buffy gestured at the cavern mouth, and even though he understood the words she spoke, he couldn't connect them with reality. "It was you," she said again.

"No…"

"I felt it. I felt it because of _you." _

"Felt what?"

A tremor rumbled through the ground before the Slayer had a chance to answer. Spike whirled around…and immediately wished he hadn't. The eyes that clashed with his made his skin ache.

"Hope," Larry responded. "That's what we call hope."

"Oh my God," Buffy gasped, her voice painted with revulsion. Spike didn't blame her; it had only been a few days, but he'd somehow managed to forget what a disgustingly ugly beast Larry was.

Still, he found the strength to swallow his loathing. There were greater issues at hand.

"Hope?" he asked.

"Son of a gun, you found the one thing that can't survive in Hell." The guardian smiled nastily and took another thunderous step forward. "And, gotta say, man…I really didn't think you had it in you."

"To give the girl hope?"

"Who the hell is this?" Buffy demanded.

Spike tilted his chin. "The bloody prison ward, ducks."

"That's right," the demon agreed.

"Don't suppose you're gonna just let us by?"

"You know, you really think I would. With all the pain and suffering you two lovebirds have endured and…well, wait. That's right; I _live_ for pain and suffering." Larry closed another step between them. "Rules schmools, that's what I always say."

"I got her out," Spike snarled. "Gig's up, mate."

"Not all the way out." The demon's eyes turned black. "And I'm here to see that you won't."

**TBC**


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N**: I want to start off by saying I simply couldn't wait for my betas to send me their revisions. I edited this chapter this morning, so I'm the only pair of eyes that's reviewed it. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Once I receive revisions, I will make the necessary changes.

I really hope everyone remembers this story. I know it's been a really long time since I updated…like four months. I promise, it's not for lack of interest, or even lack of trying. I just, for the longest time, couldn't write. When I did write, I couldn't stand what came out. It was forced and awkward and I felt I had lost all knack for writing naturally. It didn't matter what I attempted my hand at…this story, another WIP, or even my original writing. Nothing came out right.

I'm not feeling 100% better, but I am encouraged by the fact that I was able to get this chapter done. I'm on vacation from work this next week and most of that time will be spent in New York City, but I am going to kick off the next chapter before I leave. I pray for your patience and understanding. Not being able to write is the worst disease I've ever had, and while I am optimistic, I'm going to take things one step at a time.

In the meantime, thank you all so much for your patience and support.

**Previously:**

"I felt it. I felt it because of _you." _

"Felt what?"

A tremor rumbled through the ground before the Slayer had a chance to answer. Spike whirled around…and immediately wished he hadn't. The eyes that clashed with his made his skin ache.

"Hope," Larry responded. "That's what we call hope."

"Oh my God," Buffy gasped, her voice painted with revulsion. Spike didn't blame her; it had only been a few days, but he'd somehow managed to forget what a disgustingly ugly beast Larry was.

Still, he found the strength to swallow his loathing. There were greater issues at hand.

"Hope?" he asked.

"Son of a gun, you found the one thing that can't survive in Hell." The guardian smiled nastily and took another thunderous step forward. "And, gotta say, man…I really didn't think you had it in you."

"To give the girl hope?"

"Who the hell is this?" Buffy demanded.

Spike tilted his chin. "The bloody prison ward, ducks."

"That's right," the demon agreed.

"Don't suppose you're gonna just let us by?"

"You know, you really think I would. With all the pain and suffering you two lovebirds have endured and…well, wait. That's right; I _live_ for pain and suffering." Larry closed another step between them. "Rules schmools, that's what I always say."

"I got her out," Spike snarled. "Gig's up, mate."

"Not all the way out." The demon's eyes turned black. "And I'm here to see that you won't."

**Chapter Thirty-two**

He was so tired. His bones ached, his muscles whined, and his skin hurt. The past few days had been generations in the making, and though he'd slept soundly at Buffy's side, Spike was exhausted. He stood on shaky legs, eying the creature positioned between him and the tunnel out, and while he felt his demon answer the fight, the rest of him felt worn beyond repair.

He'd known what he was getting into the second he signed himself up for the crusade, and he would trade none of it for a moment's rest. Not the centuries of pain or the heartache of finding Buffy as he had, or any set of experiences spanning the second his feet hit the cavern floor and right now. But it was always something—always another fight, another obstacle, another _thing_ to defeat. And now this. Spike hadn't reckoned Larry would let them go with little more than a smile and a nod, but Christ he'd wished it. He'd been through enough, and Buffy had been through even more, and neither one of them deserved another beating.

And yet, he distinctly remembered Larry's warning; the promise he wouldn't let them go without a fight. Hell stood too much to lose by letting them walk to freedom.

"Gotta say, man," the demon continued, his eyes shining. "No one saw you coming."

"Heard that before." And he had…as he'd crawled to freedom, Larry had told him as much. Apparently Hell was graded at a learning curve. It didn't seem they'd acquired anything in that particular lesson. "Warned you enough, didn't I?"

"Yeah. After eons of empty bluffs, we wound up with egg on our face." Larry shrugged. "Guess it had to happen sometime, didn't it?"

Spike's brows perked. "So that's it, then? Your lot doesn't take a shine at being proven wrong so you're here to—"

"Shove you out the back door."

The vampire smiled tightly. Yeah, he'd figured as much.

"What did you mean?" Buffy demanded, shuffling forward a step. The blood on her skin had almost dried, the red dying into a cold, flaky rust-colored pigment Spike knew well. "What you said about hope."

Strange. That wasn't the first question on his lips. The need to know gnawing at his insides had staved off the second the guardian stepped into light, and no matter how starved he was for answers, at the moment Spike didn't figure it mattered a lick how they managed out. Not with Larry blocking the exit. They could suss out the particulars later as far as he was concerned.

But this wasn't his game. It never had been. If the Slayer wanted answers, she'd more than earned them.

"Just that," Larry responded, setting his eyes on Buffy in a way that made Spike's stomach tighten. "Hope means game's over as far as we're concerned. Something that pure…man, gotta admire it."

Spike expelled a deep breath. Buffy did, too.

"I still don't understand," she said, and he didn't blame her. "I've felt…I'm sure I've felt hope before."

Her words lacked conviction. Hard to remember, Spike supposed, after a thousand years without it. Still, he had to agree with her. With as much as she'd said otherwise, for as often as she'd voiced a desire to be something other than Chosen, Buffy's life had not been short on joy. No, she'd celebrated her victories and taken her defeats. Her life hadn't lacked hope, even at its coldest.

For his part, Larry shrugged his agreement, nodding his monstrous head. "Oh, I'm sure you have," he said. "In its most diluted form. Humanity swims in the watered-down stuff, chugs it for breakfast, lunch, and even the occasional midnight snack. That's not what I'm talking about. What I mean is _real_ hope. Real, stinkin' hope. The moment of I-can't-believe-it's-not-butter absolution. Real hope is the purest commodity you could ever come across. Remember your ex's little moment of pure happiness?"

Spike's shoulders tensed and he tossed Buffy a speculative glance. She thought for a minute before nodding.

"Yeah," Larry drawled. "The pure concentrate of any emotion is probably the most powerful intangible out there. Rage, sorrow, heartbreak, love, happiness…you name it, and it moves mountains in a big ole way. Down here, hope is a killer. That's why we have the sign."

"Not the version I heard, mate."

The guardian shrugged. "Yeah, well, you heard the version I was telling that day."

"The sign?" Buffy asked, eyes bouncing between them. "What sign?"

"The one at the front," Spike answered. Strange how fresh it stood in his mind. For all the time that had passed, every second since he descended into the Hellmouth remained fresh, untarnished. He possessed a handful of memories and all were at his disposal. Every one. He still remembered how the air had smelled, how it seemed different from Earth, even if he couldn't remember why. He felt stone cut at his back and holy water blister his skin. And he remembered the sign.

The first thing he'd seen.

"'Abandon hope all ye who enter here,'" Larry supplied. "Kinda hard to miss."

"Yeah," Buffy replied. "It's also kinda hard to stop and sightsee when you nosedive into a thousand dimensions."

"Well," Larry remarked, smirking, "that's a shame."

A dangerous growl rumbled through Spike's throat, his feet carrying him forward before thoughts could connect with action, or the concern of possible repercussions. "You bloody bastard—"

"No, Spike!" The warm hand that seized his wrist was probably the only thing that could have stopped him from doing something stupid—something like getting a vampire-shaped hole pounded into the side of the cavern wall courtesy of the guardian's stone-like fist.

"Isn't he on a short leash?" came the condescending purr.

"Yeah, and I'm the one holding him back," Buffy snapped. "The only reason you're not fish food is you have answers and I have questions, and so long as that stays the way it is you can keep breathing. Or not breathing. Or…whatever. Now answer me."

Larry smiled and spread his claws. "What were we talking about?"

"Hope."

"Ah, right." He paused and tossed Spike another amused glance. "It's your boy, there. He had it figured out from the start, didn't you? What it was? What set her off?"

Spike's jaw clenched. He didn't say a word. He wouldn't concede anything now, even if his mind dragged him back to just minutes before—before the guardian had stepped out of the shadows. Buffy's fingers brushing over the bite mark, her eyes far-away and confused. Yes, he'd known it then.

So had Buffy. She just didn't realize she knew it.

"What?" she asked, squeezing Spike's wrist. "I don't…"

"The bite, love."

He didn't realize he'd spoken until the echo of his voice died down the corridor. Even then, all seemed too quiet. As though the words themselves lived only in his head and hadn't made it to the surface.

Buffy's frown deepened, and the hole in Spike's stomach expanded. "I don't get it," she murmured, reaching for her angered skin with her free hand. "I already told you—I've bled more—"

"That's not what I mean," Larry replied. "Not what he means, either."

"How?"

"Vampire bites are different than just scraping your knee," Spike muttered. "Not like pain, see. Not if we don't want it that way."

"No," Larry interjected. "That's not it, either."

He glanced up sharply, his brow furrowing. "The fuck you mean, that's not it?"

"It has nothing to do with being…oh boy." Larry whistled and ran a claw over his scaly head. "It's really not that difficult, kids. When he bit you, a bond formed. Through that bond, you felt…well, why do you think we're standing here?"

Spike shook his head. That didn't seem right. "Rot."

"No, I felt something," Buffy agreed. "When you bit me—"

"That load is for Anne Rice fans and vampire wannabes," Spike replied heatedly, turning his eyes back to Larry. "Blood doesn't have magic powers, mate."

"Is that so?"

"You bloody know it's so." Spike sighed, glancing back to the Slayer. "It's rubbish, you hear? I didn't do anything—"

"And yet you're the one always insisting it has to be about the blood," Larry offered. "Backtracking so soon?"

"That's not what I mean. Blood opens doors and what all, but it doesn't form _bonds. _Not like that, at least. Not with a bite. You need a ritual for that. You need—"

"And what makes you think Hell's rules are the same as yours?" The guardian crossed his arms. "I'd think you, out of anyone, would know that's not the case."

"So you're saying what, exactly?"

"You said she was yours. You took her as a possession. That's a different ballgame as far as we're concerned."

Another angered snarl escaped the vampire's throat. "A possession?" he demanded. "That's not what it meant to me, and you bloody well know it."

"Not my problem. I was just answering the lady's question."

Buffy wet her lips and released a cool, trembling breath. Spike felt her racing heart as sure as though it were in his own chest. Every rush she experienced, every ripple of fear and wonder, of anger and confusion, was his to share. "So…" she said slowly, "what happened back there was a…spell…or something."

The demon nodded. "Or something."

"It let me feel everything he feels?"

"At that moment, yes."

"And I felt hope."

"And the rest, as they say, is history." Larry spread his arms, his eyes settling on Spike's and flickering dangerously. "Therefore, without further ado, welcome to Spike's…how did you say it? Home sweet home? Boy, I tell you…if these walls could talk."

Spike's insides turned cold, his mind opening a track to where the conversation had headed. Nothing concrete existed in the words, but from the look in the guardian's eyes, he saw it clearly. The trials. The rules. The things he'd labored to keep Buffy from discovering, if only to sidestep her empathy and gratitude. He wanted none of it, and Larry knew it.

No. If the guardian went down that path, all bets were off. Bloody _off. _

"The things this boy'll do for love," the demon cooed. The spark in his eyes betrayed he knew exactly what he was doing. "But then, word on the wire is that he's too noble to tell the tale. What's the matter, Spike? Afraid the girl will—"

"Stop it."

"I don't see the harm." Larry grinned nastily, turning his eyes back to Buffy. "How many times do you think that pretty skin of his has grown back? I lost track of how often it melted off during the first trial."

Rage bubbled under the skin in question, every muscle in his body winding tight and ready for the punch. "Shut your bloody gob," he snarled, willing his feet to move forward but they seemed glued to the ground. It was a sensation he hadn't experienced since finding Dru macking on a fungus demon—one where rage and terror melded into one, rigidly locking his legs in place before he shot off like a rocket. He likened it to being trapped between worlds, one where his heart disagreed with his head, and his body refused to draw allegiance.

His heart wanted to protect Buffy, to shield her from the horrors of his experience and keep her in a place where her feelings for him were dictated from something other than relief or thankfulness or anything other than genuine affection. It was the first time he didn't want her look at him like a hero. And yet for all his talk, all the lengths to which he'd gone to keep her from knowing the truth of what he'd endured to break through the wall to her prison, a small part of his defiant psyche wanted the truth revealed. He hadn't even realized it existed until that second, and his chest tightened with disgust. It was the same part that had once craved praise for not feeding off disaster victims or demanded recognition for opting to be less evil than his nature suggested. He hadn't wanted to admit it existed at all, and while he trusted his heart to overpower the greedy demon inside as it had so faithfully these last few days, he still couldn't get his feet to budge a bloody inch.

"About which trial, precisely?" Larry prodded.

Buffy exhaled a small, sad sigh. "Oh Spike…"

"Oh, so she doesn't know?" The guardian stepped forward eagerly. "Can't imagine why you'd want to keep all that to yourself. You were her champion, weren't you? Why shouldn't your fair maiden know the lengths to which you went to rescue her from her prison?"

"Shut the bloody hell up!"

"The first one was holy water," Larry said. "A great big pool of it, and a stone wall blocking Point A and Point B. I forget how many times he dove in to find his way across before he figured out the only way was a small sliver at the bottom." He shook his head and grinned. "Not a pretty picture every time he climbed out. Skin falling off his bones, his muscles sizzling, the air crackling with the smell of meat cooking. Almost enough to make a guy hungry."

Buffy's horror-filled eyes darted to Spike's, color fading from her cheeks. "Oh, my God."

The demon's eyes sparkled. "The second?" he hissed.

"I'm gonna rip your scales off!" Spike screamed. He managed to inch forward, but only slightly. His body remained enraptured with the guardian's tale, and the selfish demon in his chest, encouraged by Buffy's disgust, grew in strength.

"The second…well, that one was a gem. I gave him you, of course. A Buffy of his very own, though with slightly fewer…reservations. He saw through that one, though. Knew it wasn't you within…what? A minute or so. Was that right?"

Spike roared in fury while the inner demon cackled with delight.

"She offered him things you'd shudder to imagine," the guardian continued. "A wolf in sheep's clothing, so to speak…or rather, _your_ clothing. Your eyes. Your hair. Your voice. Your tits. You name it, she _was_ it. And Spike could've had his Buffy just as he always wanted her. Footloose and conscience-free, and ready to paint _any_ town red, red, red. We would have worked with the chip, of course. A little cranial surgery and the whole damn planet would've been yours for the taking. Well, yours and Miss Slayer 2001. Alas, our dear William wasn't even tempted. Not even a crumb…were you, Spike?"

"Not for a second," he growled, and he felt a rush of warmth from his side. Buffy had tears in her eyes.

Larry hummed. "You're really the belle of the ball, aren't you, Buffy? Poor Spikey-wikey wouldn't be swayed. Not even by _you,_ all dolled up and no soul to keep you harnessed. Every vampire's wet-dream. Every vampire's…" He turned back to Spike. "Except yours."

Spike raised his chin with pride. "That's right."

"And even that…even tempting him with Little Miss Priss wasn't the worst of it, was it?" The demon took a heavy step forward. "The worst happened about ten feet behind me."

Unwittingly, Spike's eyes traveled the indicated distance to a nauseatingly familiar curve of rock, and the bottom of his stomach dropped without warning. Truth be told, he could have easily forgotten the first two trials for the horror of the third. The endless days that melted into months until years peeled away without thought. Hunger gnawing away at his insides, his body eating itself for survival until nothing but the binds of his mystical contract kept him alive. In the quiet, of course, Buffy's phantom had kept him company. Buffy's phantom giving him the hope of what he would find when his time had ended. When the trial was at last behind him…if the wait didn't kill him first.

A soft breath reverberated through the woman at his side, jarring him back to the present. "What did you do to him?" she asked, and the tremor in her voice made his heart ache.

"No," Spike snarled. His feet still refused to move. "That's enough. That's—"

Larry's eyes twinkled. "More than you wanted her to know, right? Never knew you to be so noble."

"Sodding stuff it."

"See," the demon continued with a careless grin. "We kinda caught him in a…spider web? Was that what it was? I guess the particulars don't matter. The deal was if he could withstand waiting for three days, we'd let him crawl the rest of the way into your world." He paused and turned to the vampire. "How long did those days last, Spike?"

"I forget," he ground out. "Now let it alone. We know how this story ends, don't we?"

However, Buffy wouldn't let it go, and he understood she couldn't be detoured until she knew the truth. He'd made the mistake of telling her how long it took to wade through the trials to her world, and he knew she had to have been searching for an indicator of where the time ate itself up. This was it. Suddenly he couldn't hide anymore. Suddenly, it was all out in the open, and he hadn't done anything but stand by and let it happen.

"It was a hundred years, wasn't it?" she whispered. "A hundred years a day."

"Very good," Larry agreed. "So you knew that much."

"He told me."

"Yeah, but not in detail, I'll bet. Not about the starvation or the loneliness. His hair falling off, his eyes sealing shut, his skin rotting away with time. Days, weeks, years…" He sighed, then frowned. "Doesn't sound so bad when you say it like that, does it?"

Buffy blinked hard and looked down, her every inch trembling. Spike felt his insides recoil.

_Very good, mate. Was it worth it? _

"You've had your fun," he said softly, unable to look Larry in the eye. He couldn't bear the git's triumphant grin anymore than he could Buffy's pity. Even the inner demon bulked in revulsion, the empty satisfaction it longed far from the mind's eye. His body could move again, but the damage had already been done. There were no virtues to preserve or egos to protect. He'd failed in something completely rudimentary, and he had no one to blame but himself.

"Not nearly," Larry replied nastily. "I told you. We have a reputation to protect. Kudos on the journey, and I really mean it, man. But we can't have it getting out that one pesky vamp ruined our set-up."

"Not the first," Spike replied. "Seem to remember a chap who first dodged all your bloody bullets."

"Brychantus? Yeah, but here's the thing…he never pulled a living slayer out of her own personal hell. Do you have any idea how long we've waited to snag one of these? Gosh, we even came close with Buffy herself a few years—oh, I'm sorry—_centuries_ back. But she had to go start a mutiny and—"

"Ken," Buffy said suddenly.

Larry blinked. "I beg your pardon."

"His name was Ken." Her voice was so soft it was barely audible. "I remember that. I don't know how, but I do."

Spike tossed her a surprised glance but didn't interrupt.

"Oh, yeah," Larry purred. "Kenny boy. Poor old guy."

"Yeah." Buffy's eyes slowly rose off the floor, and the cave could have darkened under the power of her glare. "Poor Kenny."

It was her voice that did it. Her voice that made him understand the motive behind her body's tremors, the reason she could barely stand to look up. He'd been a fool to think it was sadness or shock. Those emotions were on reserve for later; like him, Buffy wouldn't feel it until enough time had passed to ease the wound. Her first instinct had always been anger, and now it poured from her every cell. Her hands had balled into fists, her face, still blood-caked from the swim across the river, set firmly with fury he had never witnessed, centering on the smiling demon whose calm demeanor failed to waver.

"You," she said, taking a step forward. "You put me there."

"Technically, I just stood watch."

"Do you have _any_ idea—"

"Pumpkin, look at me. I was _made_ for these sorts of ideas." Larry's eyes shifted briefly back to Spike. "Hot little temper, your slayer has."

"Hot temper." Buffy licked her lips. "You know what I did to Ken, don't you, Larry? It was a long, long time ago, granted, but I seem to remember bashing his head in with a very big club." She paused thoughtfully. "Or was it an axe? I can't remember, really, but there's no surprise there. I mean, a _thousand_ years have passed since then and my memory's pretty much shot to hell, and hey! Check it out. There's a pun and I wasn't even looking."

She took another step forward and Spike followed her without realizing it.

"In the end, I guess the details don't matter, do they? But the point is…I was pissed. I was _beyond_ pissed. And I let him off easy." Buffy plastered on a dangerously sweet smile, covered another space separating her from the beast, and said, "You? I don't want easy."

It was over before it began. Larry realized it a second too late—a second later than Spike, who had the good sense to get out of the way. At once he could have been anywhere; Restfield cemetery, the alley behind the Bronze, inside a speeding Winnebago, or any one of a thousand different places watching the same scene unfold as though choreographed. He'd witnessed her take out too many beasts to tally, and in the end, he supposed, that was all Larry was. An oversized rock of a beast, and while Spike hadn't been successful in doing much more than bruising the sod with his face, a pissed off Slayer was worth an army of vampires, and a pissed off _Buffy_ much more than that.

She kicked him back to the opening of the cave, back to the hungry black mass that pulsated against the place where Hell had once been. There was nothing behind that—a great empty nothing, bleak and hollow, and for the flash of surprised fear in Larry's eyes, Spike knew it was the sort of nothing from which no one emerged.

"Wait, wait!" Larry gasped, his claws coming up. "I was just the messenger, honest!"

"Yeah?" Buffy replied. "Well, you can deliver _this_ message for me."

Her leg slammed into the demon's gut, sending him tumbling into a sea of black. He was survived by a scream so piercing the cavern walls began to shake, but it lasted only seconds, and then all was still again.

**TBC**


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N:** Another chapter in less than four months. Go me!

Thank you so much to my loyal readers for not giving up on me. I'll do my best not to let you down. Also thanks to my betas. I couldn't do it without you.

I do have more than half of the next chapter complete, and while I plan on getting it done over the next few days, I seem to have come down with a stomach bug. I ask your patience. Thank you.

**Chapter Thirty-three**

"It was here?"

Spike swallowed hard and nodded without thinking. He hadn't blinked once since Larry disappeared behind the black cloud; he couldn't tear his eyes from her face. There were times when she wore her heart on her sleeve and others when her thoughts remained annoyingly hard to read. _This_ particular time fell in the latter category. She hadn't done anything since she tore herself away from the mouth of the cave but stare at the curve of rock where he'd spent three centuries as if the longer she looked, the less a reality his trials would become.

"That's right," he said softly. "Right there."

"You were…hanging?"

"Yeah. Like the git said, it was a spider web. Caught me as I was running for it, or something of the like." Spike inhaled deeply and took a step forward. "Buffy—"

"You did this for three hundred years."

"Wasn't so bad. I like the quiet."

Buffy looked up at last, arching a brow. It was such a familiar look his shoulders nearly sagged with relief. Skepticism was one thing, but the haunted look he'd seen just moments ago was more than he could handle. And while her typical spark had yet to light her eyes, she wasn't crying or shaking or anything of the sort.

"The quiet?" she replied. "Since when?"

"What can I say, love? It grows on you."

"I can't believe you did this…for me." Buffy shook her head and looked down again, her eyes roaming the pattern of dirt where he'd fallen upon completion of the third trial. "You told me it was bad. Or…I guess I knew it was bad. It had to be because you wouldn't tell me what happened. But never…God, I'd never think it was…this."

"Was nothing."

"That's crap."

"Buffy—"

"I was told I was full of love once." She frowned, her fingers brushing her blood-soaked brow. "By a spirit guide. I'm still…it comes in spurts, what I remember. That stuff about Ken…I don't know how I pulled that out of my head, but I did."

"Who was Ken?" he asked. It was a distraction, if nothing else.

"A demented demon that trapped people in a hell-dimension and then spat them back out after a day. A day being, as you know, a hundred years in this world." Buffy sighed harshly. "I think that was something I remembered when I first fell. How long the days were and whatnot. I helped a girl find out what happened to her boyfriend and then she took my…I guess that was when I was in LA, right after Angel died." She looked up once more. "I was told I was full of love."

"In LA?"

"No, right before I jumped. That trip thing that Giles took me on before Glory…she told me I was full of love, and that love would lead me to my gift." She snorted appreciatively. "But I don't think I could have done this. Love or no love, three hundred years—"

"Don't make me out to be a bloody hero."

A fond smile flirted with her lips. "You wouldn't have minded once."

His nostrils flared. "We've been over this a time or two, love. Things change."

"I know. Believe me, I know. It's just…you were alone."

"Not as alone as you were. I had friends to keep me company, didn't I? Larry marched a whole bloody parade of them by. Angelus, Darla, Dru, even Harmony at one point, I'd imagine." Spike took a step toward her. "I wasn't alone. Not like you. You had no one."

"But you—"

"And what's more, I chose this. I knew what I was getting into."

"You couldn't know _this." _

"Maybe not, but even if I had, it wouldn't matter a lick. I could've cried uncle any time I liked, but I didn't." He let out a deep breath. "I couldn't."

Buffy blinked hard and looked away. "Yeah," she whispered. "That scares me."

"What?"

"You, sacrificing so much. Waiting so long. Just…what he said was true, wasn't it?" She waved at the arched rock. "Your body, your hair, your eyes…you really just starved for three hundred years, didn't you? Waiting for—"

"I wouldn't let them get the bloody best of me."

"Three _hundred_ years, Spike!"

His chest puffed out and his nostrils flared. "And I would've waited more if they'd asked!" he barked. "It was nothing to me. You kept me company, love."

"It wasn't nothing."

"To get to you?"

Buffy gestured emphatically, whirling around again, her eyes shining brightly. "Yes! Do you have any idea what this means? For you, for me…God, for everything? What you did for me…I knew it was going to be you. I remember thinking so, even telling you so…but this is…it's too much. What you went through to get to me…"

"I love you," he said, deflated. It was so simple to him; he didn't know how to make it simpler for her. It was just the way he understood things. Love was worth anything and the woman he loved deserved whatever he had to give, no matter how long it took him to give it, or how he suffered to deliver it.

"This is different from love," Buffy reasoned. "People don't love like this."

He spread his arms. "I'm not people, pet."

"But—"

"I don't know what to tell you," Spike retorted. "I don't know what you want to hear, or what I can say that you haven't heard already. You were gone, and I knew that I had to get you back. Living in a world without you was a nightmare. A real bloody nightmare, and no matter what I did I couldn't wake up. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I just waited for your mates to find out where you were so I could get you out. This," he waved at the archway, "was just three hundred years of what I would have had up there, but this time you were at the end of the tunnel."

She blinked hard. "Spike…"

"I just did what I could."

"I don't know if _I_ could have…" Buffy drew in a sharp breath. "If it was Dawn or…you…I don't think I could have done this. I don't think I could have survived what you survived."

Spike just stared at her. "That's what's bothering you?"

"Well…"

"I just did what I had to do to get to you. That was all that bloody mattered to me."

She pursed her lips and crossed her arms, fidgeting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "It's just not…"

"Normal?"

"There's love and then there's _love." _

He shrugged, feeling lost and ineloquent. There were only so many ways to tell her and a limited number of words he could weave. How could he hope to make her understand when he couldn't explain the obvious? "Sorry, sweet, I don't know what I can…what you want to hear. Maybe not having a soul makes it easier for me. Not much white noise gets in the way. All I cared about was you."

Buffy held his gaze for a few seconds before breaking eye contact, her shoulders dropping. "I was never fair to you."

"We've already—"

"I know we've talked about this, but it just…I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry for."

"Can't stop me." She shrugged, aiming a grin his way. "Just the way I am."

"And getting to you is the way I am."

"I'll never understand this."

Spike smiled and reached for her hand. "You will," he promised softly. "We got a lot of time together."

The spark finally returned to her eyes, which didn't fail to warm his insides. More of that and he would burn with enough hope to level the tunnels of Hell. He wouldn't allow himself to ingest fool's gold, but the way she looked at him couldn't be insincere. If it wasn't love it was a close relative, and he was a patient guy.

He could wait.

The cavern was longer than he remembered. It was easy to forget the twisted tunnels that stretched between the stages on which his trials took place, and even though his legs ached and his muscles strained and he had no idea what to expect when they reached the land above, the promise of home was almost more than he could stand. Larry had been defeated, and while Spike wasn't naïve enough to believe the guardian was the only obstacle Hell would throw their way, the healthy helping of optimism Buffy fed him guided his feet and silenced the voices of doubt.

They were so close…

"I'll never know how you found it," Buffy gasped after rolling under the stone wedge situated in the middle of the holy water pool. The water itself had been drained, however, and Spike wasn't about to ask why. Perhaps the time for trials had passed; the web hadn't been there, either.

"Found what, sweets?" Spike asked, dipping to his knees to follow her under.

"The door," she said after she was on her feet. "The way to get to where I was."

"Your world."

Buffy nodded. "Yeah. Hellsville."

He slowly rose to his feet with a heavy breath, cracking a grin when her words sank in. "That its proper name, then?"

"Seems appropriate to me." Her eyes took a furtive glance at their surroundings, though for all the ground they'd covered in the last few hours, the setting hadn't changed. "I don't know how you found it."

"Don't know, either. Just bloody fortunate that I did." Spike nodded toward the tunnel through which he'd walked lifetimes before, when the space in which he stood had been designed to make him wave a white flag, when the task at hand had seemed impossible. There was a slight lift of rock leading back to the path, and while it sat a good few feet off the ground, he was surprised at how shallow the pool seemed when not filled with water. Those few times he'd dived in had just about killed him…would have, had it not been for the contract he entered upon accepting the trials. "Can't be that much further," he said.

"You said that an hour ago."

"Didn't mean it then."

"But now you do?"

"That's right." He watched her heave herself onto higher ground before following suit. "This wasn't too far," he grunted, arms shaking with exhaustion, "from where I came in."

Her nose wrinkled the way it so often did when she thought he was full of crap. "You said that an hour ago, too."

Spike winked, shrugging a shoulder. "Let's see what I'll be saying in a few minutes, yeah?"

Buffy arched a brow and failingly tried to smother a grin. It was enough to supply his tired body with an extra dosage of energy. For her, he'd keep walking.

They couldn't have much further to journey. Every end, after all, had its beginning.

The sign was still there.

Spike wasn't surprised. He wasn't anything. He stood just a few feet from the length of rope Willow and Giles had lowered into Hell's mouth, occupying the space where his eyes had first absorbed the place that would be his home for centuries. He couldn't feel anything, really. Not at this moment. It was numbing—a moment that wasn't a moment. As though the eyes through which he saw were not his eyes, and the body in which he stood was not his body. His brain was too tired and his thoughts were too foggy, and he couldn't quite grasp that the moment was real. It seemed too distant to be real.

Yet there it was. The sign.

_Abandon hope all ye who enter here. _

"Spike?"

He turned to Buffy and forced a smile. "Nowhere to go but up."

Her eyes followed the rope as far as they could before it dissolved into shadows. "Up?" she whispered.

"Gotta climb."

"Our world…home…it's…up there?"

"Few hundred feet above your pretty head."

She swallowed, and for the first time it registered how hard her heart pounded. He should have heard it straight off, but somehow it hadn't clicked until now. Perhaps he just hadn't been listening.

"What if I forgot?"

"What's that, love?"

Buffy expelled a deep breath and looked down again. "How to live up there. What if I forgot?"

"You haven't."

"A thousand years, Spike. I've been by myself for a long time."

"You've had me these last few days."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yeah, and if memory serves, throwing a spear through your shoulder was my way of saying hello."

He waved dismissively. "Just rusty, is all."

"What if I'm unfit to be around people? What if I freak? What if I hurt someone…Dawn, Giles…what if I—"

Spike sealed the space between them, his hands finding her shoulders. "You won't," he said firmly. "Not the Buffy I know. You were born for that world, bloody well made for it. It's yours, you hear? The whole lot of it. You were never meant to be alone, and Christ, if you need proof, just look—"

"But I am. The Slayer…I remember that." She blinked hard. "Just me. No one else. _No one else. _What if the reason I fell into Hellsville was that?" Her eyes brightened with a breath of epiphany, and before he could blink, she'd torn down an argument he hadn't anticipated. "God, why didn't I see it? I can't just go waltzing back to my life as though I remember how to…_I don't remember how to live,_ Spike!"

"Then we'll remember together."

"It's not that easy!"

He kissed her on impulse, swallowing her protests without thought. In easy seconds, they were warring with each other, lips clashing, tongues searching, delving into a rhythm that had provided solace when the world knew none. How long they stood, he didn't know, only that her eyes were starry when he pulled away, and not just with the shine of tears.

She wouldn't cry, he knew. She'd just give him a glimpse before reining it in.

"We'll make it easy," he promised her softly. "No one will expect more than you can give."

Buffy snorted, but couldn't hide her grin, no matter how small. "God, I love them, but we are remembering the same group of people, right?"

"Well, if any of them give you grief, you can just remind them that my chip fell out sometime around the third century."

The grin she'd tried to smother came out of hiding, and while the panic in her eyes had yet to fully alleviate, he trusted the weight wouldn't be unbearable any longer. He'd shoulder anything she couldn't, and fight her for the right.

Things would be different. They had to be.

"What if I can't handle it?" she whispered. "What if I hurt someone?"

"Just aim for Harris and all will end well."

"Spike, get serious."

His brows hit his hairline. "Serious as a bloody heart-attack. I'll even help you dump the body."

That earned an outright laugh. A very good sign.

From here, all they had to do was climb.

**TBC**


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N:** I don't thank my betas enough, and I really should. They're a wonderful bunch, and I can't manage without them. So thank you—Megan, Beth, Mari, Deanna, Kimmie, and Sue. Thank you so much.

Only two chapters after this. I really can't believe we're this close to the end.

**Chapter Thirty-four**

About ten minutes into the climb, Spike remembered how difficult the descent had been. He remembered rope digging into his palms, his muscles aching, clamping, and sending sharp pangs through his forearms and back. He remembered blinking dust out of his eyes and the cold, unforgiving blackness of what waited beneath. He remembered all of it, yet nothing could compare to the physical agony of dragging his body against the force of gravity.

It could have gone on forever: the gnawing abyss of black shadows tugging from the pit below. At least this time he wasn't alone. The short, feminine grunts from the woman above saved him from the threat of collapse. His need for rest couldn't outshine the knowledge of what awaited at the surface.

"Oh!"

Spike's heart jerked upward. "What's that?" he gasped, heaving himself up another pace. "Buffy?"

"Air!" she cried, panting. "Oh God, I think…I think that's air. Real air."

The concept seemed too foreign to consider. He'd forgotten there was a difference at all until that moment. Suddenly, the space around him seemed clearer and crisper. Perhaps it was in his imagination, but he didn't think so. "Real…?"

"It smells…different. It's…damn, my arms are going to fall off."

"Just a bit further, love…"

"Don't tease me."

Spike shook his head, inhaling another lungful of what _had_ to be fresh air. And were his eyes playing tricks on him, or did he spy a bit of light just a few precious feet above Buffy's crown? "No. No, just a bit further."

Buffy rumbled an inaudible reply, heaving herself up another arm-length. They continued like that in strained silence—and then at last, _no,_ his eyes hadn't lied to him. A definitive break of light cracked through what looked like bits of fallen rubble. It wasn't strong, but it was strong enough to stand against the black, taking shape and form. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out.

The end. This had to be it.

"Oh God," he croaked.

Buffy gasped and swore, her feet kicking hard now. His eyes caught the outline of her small but defined arms grappling slabs of stone. Then she was gone, pulling herself through the thin opening, and leaving him alone in the cave.

"Spike…"

A burst of adrenalin surged through his worn body. "Coming!" he promised, squinting upward. Though he couldn't see her, he knew she was out. He wanted to sag with relief, but a remaining strain of logic pushed him forward. She was out—Buffy was freed into the world. Her world. The world from which she'd been torn. He'd fulfilled his promise, he'd done what he swore he would do. He'd gotten her out.

Now all he had to do was finish the climb.

"Be there in a pinch," he murmured.

From above, what sounded like a strangled gasp pierced the air. The hairs on his neck stood at attention.

"Buffy?"

"Oh God."

The space that had seemed so unattainable soon fell behind him. It wasn't rare to hear her voice colored in panic, but it certainly wasn't the reaction he'd expected. In less than a flash, Spike jerked himself from the twisted rock, ignoring the way roughened edges sliced into his skin or the unpleasant twist an unruly ledge gave his ankle. Dust clouded his eyes, but he managed to find her through the patchy shadows of a world he'd forgotten.

She was on her knees, her eyes bounding from one corner to the next in horror.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, no, no. This isn't right."

Spike blinked. Aside from her, he couldn't see much. The light he'd thought he'd seen existed, but it was minimal. A lighter shade of black, if anything at all, and his usually heightened senses had yet to kick in.

"What's not right?"

"They sent us back." Buffy was on her feet in an instant. "This isn't—this can't be right."

It took a few seconds for his vision to return completely, but when it did he immediately understood. The air they'd breathed was indeed fresher, but the tunnel had led them back into ruins. Rock littered the ground, scattered everywhere between slanted walls and crooked doorways. The ceiling above looked as though it were seconds from caving in; canopied curtains strewn lazily across closed windows. It was an instant pull back into the world they had just escaped, and had his senses not decided to kick in at that second, his reaction might have been something a bit more severe than panic. The rage he'd felt at the blood river bubbled in his tired chest, dying quickly but surfacing all the same.

Willow and Giles. Their scent was unmistakable. They had been here, and recently, and that was something he definitely couldn't say about the place from which they'd escaped. It took remembering that to remembering where the Hellmouth opened, and within seconds everything locked in place.

"I can't go back!" Buffy screamed, and the force behind her cry was so devastating it promptly uprooted him from his realization. Hollow and aching, desperate and savage, all within the lifespan of a second. "I can't go back to that!"

"Buffy, Buffy! It's all right." Spike winced and yanked his ankle free from the confining wedge of rock. "It's all right, pet. We're home."

She blinked rapidly. "I don't understand."

"The high school, love. You blew it to the moon, remember? This is where I came in." He gestured to the vacant space and empty walls. "The library, I'd wager. Wasn't that where the door opened?"

Buffy's eyes hit the floor, numbness chasing away desolation. She nodded after a few long seconds. "Yeah," she said. "I remember." Her tongue poked out and took a swipe of her lips before her gaze found his again. "Sorry…I just…it looks just like—"

He staggered a step forward. "I know. Let's take a peek outside, yeah? Feels like nighttime to me, so I doubt I'll burn off anything valuable."

She looked at him askance.

"Sunlight," he said. "Permanent sort of allergy, if memory serves."

"Oh, right." Buffy frowned. "That's going to be hard to get used to."

"For you, I suppose," he agreed with a grin.

The pain in his ankle faded quickly, though his arms felt like deadweights and every muscle in his body protested movement. Still, physical exhaustion had nothing on the wave of euphoria that timidly began creeping through his veins, tickling his insides until he was half-crazed with fear that the ground on which he stood would vanish. It was as though he had stepped into a dream or a painting he'd long admired. As though one of the thousand wishes he'd cast into the void had decided to take form, and at any second he would find himself in the cave again, still years away from breaking into Buffy's Hell. But as the seconds ticked by and the world refused to fade, he felt it was safe to embrace the strange burn of what he assumed was respite in its purest form. And he knew then that Larry had been right—the concentrate of any emotion was enough to unmake realities.

The painting into which he'd stepped, this crazy place called home, didn't fade into shadows or blink out of existence. For every step he took, the sounder his surroundings became. He smelled chalk and burnt books. Further away he detected the movement: cars, horns, stereos, people walking up and down sidewalks, fast food restaurants catering to the local teens, and demons roaring through cemeteries as vampires picked off the slow and stupid from Sunnydale's pitiful nightlife. These sensations couldn't be created or replicated. They were real.

_Real. _

When he met Buffy's eyes again, he knew she thought the same. While she didn't cry, she looked torn between a place where tears were needed and one where tears would simply interfere with sensation.

Buffy stood again in the world from which she'd been ripped. The place he swore he'd never call home again if she wasn't at his side. She was real, too. Everything was real. Her bloodied skin, her shoeless feet, her dark hair, and the age she betrayed when her eyes locked with his. The age she couldn't convey through her youthful face. The one the recesses of the below had given her.

He'd do it all again. In a heartbeat, in a sodding blink, he'd dive back into the hole and get her out. If she was a mirage, she was the most perfect mirage he'd ever seen. But she wasn't a figment or a dream. He'd touched her, held her, washed her skin and cut her hair. He'd shaved her legs and kissed her mouth, and he'd known her in ways he'd never thought to touch. That was real, too.

The world collided with experience. The vampire who had climbed into Hell was not the same one that emerged, and the woman he'd brought with him had changed beyond reproach. Changed while somehow remaining the same—it was one of those tricks played by time. One he couldn't begin to fathom yet somehow already understood.

And when he reached for her hand, she immediately granted it.

He'd brought this with him, too. And he wouldn't give it up without a fight.

It sounded bloody stupid in his head, but Spike had forgotten there were stars. He'd also forgotten streetlights and stop signs, and that headstones had carvings denoting who lay beneath the ground. For all intents and purposes, he considered his memory fairly intact. It had suffered greatly during the third trial, of course, but with the end of the trials came the return of oneself, and he'd carried that with him through every step of his journey. Yet still, as they dodged headlights and ignored the creative gestures of angry drivers, he took in deep, unneeded breaths and remembered things he'd forgotten to keep with him.

There were absolutes, however, that time could not eradicate. The path to Revello Drive was one of them, and how often he'd walked it, from every feasible corner of town. It was the direction his feet instinctively pointed, the only place he knew to go. In the end, he didn't know if Buffy likewise remembered or if she was merely following him, and it seemed thoughtless to ask.

It was an unusually quiet night in Sunnydale, which once upon a time would have driven him mad. Tonight, Spike thanked the silence. Though he doubted a concerned motorist would stop to help, he didn't want too many gawkers taking in their haggard states. Buffy was still drenched in blood, dressed in what she'd managed to throw on before the world caved in on itself. He stood only in jeans, himself, his chest splattered with dark, crusted blood. His skin was chilled but he didn't feel the cold. With Buffy at his side, her hand in his, he could do nothing but hum with warmth.

"It's real."

Spike blinked and shot her a speculative glance which she didn't return. Her eyes were fixed on the front door. "Yeah," he murmured. "Home sweet bloody home."

"It's like something I imagined, you know? Something I wished for." Buffy expelled a ragged sigh. "I saw it so often when I dreamt I didn't really think it could be real. Not even when you helped me remember. But it's here. It's real."

He didn't say anything. He wouldn't know where to begin.

As it was, she didn't allow him much time to come up with anything profound. "Do you think they'll remember me?" she asked.

_That_ he hadn't expected. "What?"

"It's been so long…"

"Not here, it hasn't."

She nodded without feeling. "Yeah, but…I know that, but I've never understood it. I remember what happened with that Ken guy, and I remember Giles telling me Angel could have suffered centuries after I sent him to Hell, and I never really got it. How can time be so relative?"

"Asking the wrong bloke, pet. I just roll with the punches." He squeezed her hand. "But even if a sodding millennia had passed for them too, they wouldn't forget you. You're the sort of girl no one forgets."

Buffy expelled a shivering breath and looked at him. "You think so?"

Spike's lips tugged into a smile. "Think so? I'm living proof. Now come on…won't get easier by waiting."

She nodded again and then they were moving. Taking strides up the familiar walkway and stepping up onto a porch that whined under their weight as though to say, "Welcome home," in a language only it understood. Spike thought about ringing the bell but it seemed asinine. Even so, it didn't matter the next second; a well-known awareness washed over him before he could give the matter much thought. No heartbeat echoed within the home's walls, no voices tickled his sensitive ears, no throb of a pulse tempted his hungry fangs. Buffy's homecoming felt anticlimactic. No one was home.

He would have been annoyed had he not been so relieved. Just like that, he'd been granted a few more minutes alone with her. At once an endless supply, Spike had grown steadily aware how much of his time with Buffy now lived with a deadline. He didn't think she'd take back the promises she'd made, but he couldn't speak for how her chums would react once the excitement wore off and his newfound closeness with their Slayer came out into the open. It was an old fear—one he doubted he would ever completely banish.

Spike tried the doorknob, which was predictably locked. "Well, bugger."

"What?"

"No one's home."

Buffy frowned. "How do you know?"

"It's a vamp thing. I know. Reckon they put the key under the mat?"

"Where are they?"

"Magic Box or Rupert's, I'd wager. So under the mat, love?"

"They're not home." She trembled and shook her head, and immediately any sense of keeping her to himself died. It had been a selfish wish, after all, and one that felt nearly as familiar as the porch beneath their feet. Buffy would want to find her friends immediately. She wouldn't be contented to wait until they turned up.

The words never came, though. Not those words. Instead, she patted her cheeks, felt her hair, then nodded to the potted plant sitting next to the door. "There," she said. "I think…I don't know, but I think Dawn and I would hide the key there. I remember digging around for it in the dirt."

"Not under?"

"No, we buried it." Buffy inhaled sharply. "We're always burying things."

An excited thrill raced down his spine. "So we're going inside, then?"

"I can't face them like this," she said with a nod. "I can't just go over there looking like I just…"

Spike arched a brow, kneeling to the potted plant in question and dipping his fingers into the soil. Finding the key wasn't difficult. Another nod to her memory. "Crawled out of Hell?" he ventured.

"Yeah, that's it."

"Hot shower oughta do it, yeah?" He slid the key into the lock and turned, and just like that another gateway opened. A portal into a place he'd nearly forgotten. The layout of a home he knew so well—the place he'd yearned to be welcomed. Spike drew in a breath and braved the threshold.

Buffy followed and then, at last, burst into tears.

He didn't know how long he held her. Months could have passed and he wouldn't have cared. He'd held her like this before—he'd felt her tremble against his chest as hot tears scalded his skin in the wake of memories returning to a shattered mind. She hadn't cried much since then, though fuck knew she deserved her tears. Hell, he didn't know how she'd kept it in this long—standing in the middle of the foyer she'd never thought she'd call home again, in the center of a town she'd last seen while diving into a spiraling sea of hell dimensions. Buffy had been strong longer than anyone could attest, and she'd earned the quiet.

She'd earned _this. _

The waves of tears finally subsided, replaced by a cold, embracing calm. Buffy's hands tightened around his shoulders before breaking away. She wiped at her eyes and took in a shuddering breath, staggering toward the living room as though in a daze.

"Err…" Spike moved forward with intent, his feet guiding him to the kitchen. "If memory serves, Big Red kept some vamp-juice in the fridge. Fancy seeing if there's something nice to nibble on? Something not made from pig?"

Buffy nodded distantly, running her fingers over a lampshade. He stared at her for a second before disappearing into the kitchen. There he found a note on the island, reading a simple: _Willow – Staying at Janice's. It's too quiet here. – D._ It was so normal, so ordinary, he nearly thought it would vanish if he looked at it a beat too long, as though no time at all had passed.

But then, as the date on the newspaper on the counter proclaimed, no time had. Barely three days had gone by. Three days.

It was hard to imagine, like Buffy said. Hard to grasp that time could move differently. Hard to imagine that so much suffering could be compiled into such a sparing collection of hours.

Spike tossed open the door to the fridge and seized a bag of blood. There were three left, as well as half a carton of milk and a box of pizza. Not much time to shop, he figured. The Scoobies' priorities were in a different place.

"Buffy?"

She appeared in the doorway, a shade of herself. "The kitchen," she said. "Anything to eat?"

"Leftover pizza."

"What's pizza?"

"An old favorite," he assured her, snatching the box and tossing it onto the island. "You'll remember it soon enough. Smells good. Safe to eat, that is."

She nodded and picked at the lid. "Gonna have some?"

Spike held up the bag in his hand. "Got my nosh right here. Eat as much as you want, pet. Then we can pipe upstairs and wash up."

Buffy's eyes fell on Dawn's note. "Do you think they'll be back tonight?"

"Don't know. This place was bloody buzzing before I left, but I can't guess what they've done since I…came to get you. The witches might be cozy at their love nest and Harris has that pad for him and his demon." Spike shrugged a shoulder. "If Dawn's staying with a chum, they might not come back here at all tonight."

She nodded. "Okay. Good."

"Good?"

"I think I need the night. I think I need to wake up here before I put too much into it. Before I believe it's not a dream." Buffy blinked rapidly, gingerly taking a slice of cold pizza into her small hands. "You sure you don't want some?"

Spike shook his head. "Think I'll wait, too."

"Before eating?"

"Just to see what happens."

She smiled and took a bite. He raised the bag to his waiting fangs.

They stood soaked in dried blood in a kitchen that had forgotten them, eating and watching each other.

Out of everything he'd experienced, this moment was definitely the most surreal.

He sat on her bed in the dark, listening to the shower running in the next room. It felt wrong sitting on her clean comforter in his filthy, bloodied state, but she'd asked him to wait here, and here he'd wait. Cold pig's blood churned in his stomach and while his demon demanded a second helping, he didn't want Buffy walking into an empty room. She likely wouldn't be much longer.

There were small details he'd forgotten. The pictures of Buffy with friends wedged in the mirror of her vanity, the scattered assortment of girly things across her dresser beside the stuffed pig. A heap of dirty laundry sat next to her closet door, where her purse still hung. Buffy still lived in this room. It was almost as though she'd never left.

Spike's head jerked up as the shower shut off. A few minutes elapsed before the bathroom door squeaked open, and a sweet-smelling, towel-dressed slayer wandered over the threshold.

"Well, well," he said with a gentle smile. "You look good enough to eat."

"I hope you mean that literally."

His eyes narrowed pointedly.

"That didn't come out right. I mean…" Buffy wiggled as a cute blush warmed her cheeks. "Well, you know what I mean."

"I bloody hope so," Spike replied, waggling his brows, his eyes taking a nice long detour down her scrumptious body. Fuck, but she knew how to set a mood in seconds.

Buffy laughed. It was miraculous. He didn't think he'd hear her laugh again for a long while. "Hold that thought," she said, waving at him. "At least until you de-Hellify."

Spike smirked, rising to his feet. "Noted."

He edged past her and stepped into the bathroom, wincing under the staggeringly bright overhead light. Like everything else in the house, the shower and the loo looked like something out of a dream—something imagined from a faraway land. He cast a quick glance to the mirror and was nearly startled when it reflected empty space. Strange how quick some habits could break. He supposed he would miss that; seeing himself in something other than Polaroids had been perhaps the one and only perk of living in the underworld.

He turned the faucet and water poured. The shower had a lived-in smell; it was another difference he'd neglected to catalogue. Spike scrubbed himself dutifully, a mixture of blood and dirt circling the drain. He didn't know how long the water ran; every time soap slid off his body he felt tainted again. As though Hell had chased him back to Revello Drive, as though it clung to his skin. He lathered his scalp and allowed his hair, longer than he typically wore it, to wrap around his fingers. First things first once things settled down around here, he'd chop off the curls and seize the first bottle of bleach he could get his hands on.

By the time he stepped out of the shower the mirrors had fogged and his flesh was pink. He reckoned his body would never again have this sort of color: his color was already darker than any vampire's should be given the burn of the non-sun from Buffy's dimension. Spike drew in another needless breath and toweled off, forgetting until he was nearly dry that in this world it did matter whether or not water splattered across the floor. He wiped up his mess and tossed the towel over the tub, then glanced at the dirty jeans he'd dumped beside the sink. There was no earthly reason to keep them beyond the laughable notion of sentimental attachment and he wasn't about to slip them back on before bed.

_Bed. _

Spike's heart twisted. He hadn't thought ahead this far. While he was certain Buffy wouldn't want him to leave, especially given the obvious invitation she'd made before he stepped into the shower, things felt different here. He'd slept at her side for days now, but that was in a world with only two people. This was a world with many people, particularly those of the persuasion that he wasn't worth the dirt he'd just washed off his skin. And while he knew Buffy had aged in ways no one could really understand, slipping in beside her in her own bed seemed too perfect to be reality.

He cleared his throat and stepped into the hallway, naked and incredibly aware of it. He hadn't been so aware since the moments when a doe-eyed, innocent slayer of pure Id had discovered her own sexuality. He'd like nothing more than to stroll into her bedroom and flex like a cocky bastard, but he wouldn't just assume things this time around. He'd assumed enough when he'd had nothing to lose. Things had changed; when one had everything to lose, the rules seemed a little more unbreakable than they once had.

Ultimately, he wasn't doing anyone any favors by standing in the hallway. Spike stepped up to her doorway and stopped short of entering.

"Buffy?"

No response. He peered closer.

"Quick question about the sleeping arrangement, love…you _do_ want me in there, don't you?"

A beat. Still nothing. He inhaled sharply and stepped inside, his eyes immediately landing on her small, sleeping form. Spike's shoulders dropped.

Of course she was asleep.

"Of course," he murmured, nearing her bed. "Must be bloody knackered."

Evidently, it wasn't a very deep sleep. The sound of his voice was enough to make her stir. Buffy moaned and rolled over, her eyes blinking open. "Spike?"

"Here, sweetheart."

He watched as she fought to retrieve memory and knew the second she remembered where she was. She sat up quickly but settled the second her gaze landed on the stuffed pig. It seemed enough to determine that she hadn't dreamt the whole affair, for she settled back almost immediately.

"Spike?" she called again.

"Right here."

"You're naked."

Spike grinned sheepishly. "Yeah."

"Sorry."

"Why's that?"

"Too tired. Come to bed."

That was more than enough to relieve his concerns. In easy seconds he had crawled into bed behind her, folding her into his arms. Her sweet, unclothed body seemed to hum when he reeled her into him. Her hair fell across his skin and her warmth was enough to heat the bloody town, and it was so perfect he was almost afraid to let sleep take him.

Almost.

If there was any chance the world would still be there in the morning, he'd have to take it. Not three minutes passed before exhaustion weighed down his eyes and settled across his tired muscles, and just like that he fell into a deep, black slumber.

**TBC**


	35. Chapter 35

**DISCLAIMER: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT. PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION!**

**Author's Note**: This is the second-to-last chapter. I officially I finished this story yesterday.

It's been an emotional 24 hours. This story has been with me for so long. I outlined it a full year before I committed any words to paper, and I worried the closer I became to starting it that I wouldn't be able to do it justice. Furthermore, this story has been with me during the most revolutionary time of my life. When I started it, I was in college, living in my parents' home, single, and working a part-time job. Now I'm a graduate, a published author, a full-time employee and two and a half years into a wonderful relationship. It's been quite the ride.

Thank you so much to my readers. You are wonderful, patient, giving, and kind. Thank you for sticking with me. It means the world.

And, of course, thanks to my betas: Megan, Sue, Mari, Deanna, Beth, EB, and Kimmie. Some of you have been with me from the beginning, others I've lost or gained along the way. Each of you has helped me so much in your own way. I really don't tell you enough how much I appreciate you. Thank you so much.

Last chapter coming soon.

**Chapter Thirty-five**

For the first time in a long, long while, the things he felt and the wonders he saw were not born of blood or sorrow. He felt no pain in the blanket of night. The past few days he'd grown accustomed to holding her, feeling her soft breaths tickle the hair on his arms as her chest rose and fell, but this was different. No creeping fear bordered the skirts of his dreams. Instead, he felt calm. At peace. He slept harder and deeper than he had in generations, and fell far into the recesses of his mind without worry of never making it out.

He burned with her. It wasn't the first time he'd felt her honeyed warmth tempt him as slumber receded, and it definitely wasn't the first time he felt no inclination to contest, but something felt different all the same. Spike hadn't had much practice in refusing the soft, slick heat of the woman he loved, but he'd imposed an almost unnatural resistance during Buffy's recovery. While it'd fallen as soon as she allowed him into her body, a shade had remained. A part of him that had accepted he might not always be welcome between her thighs—that despite words or reassurance and a thousand other silent indicators that things between them had truly changed—it might be ripped away without thought or warning.

It wasn't a rational fear, but a real one nonetheless. Spike had learned over the course of the journey not to accept anything at face value…especially when what was offered was something for which he'd yearned above all else. Still, nothing could chase away the perfection of the moment. His dreams were safe again, and here he could have whatever he desired.

He dreamt of her, of course—of his hot little Buffy. Her skin so warm, her pussy soft, wet, and beckoning his exploration. She sighed when his lips found her neck and rumbled a sweet little moan that teased his cock and made his demon purr. It was okay, though, because this was a dream. He knew it was a dream. Why else would the smell of decay and ruin be replaced with the tantalizing hint of shampoo that he hadn't sniffed in centuries? He was buried under a thousand scents and sensations he had kept as a memory, never truly thinking, when he was honest with himself, that he would have it again. It was a dream. A wonderful, wishful dream.

His hand found her breast as his teeth skimmed the perfect column of her throat. She sighed again and thrust her hips back against him, her thighs parting in open invitation. Spike growled happily, tongue worshiping her soft flesh as his fingers lazily strummed her nipple. The head of his cock found her wet opening and rubbed itself along her slit until he heard her plead with him, and then he sank home.

Spike's eyes flew open, a strangled gasp clawing through his throat. No dream. Not a dream. This was real. Everything was real. The bed, the walls, the dresser, and the wholeness of this place that was as real as the girl in his arms.

"Oh fuck." He released her breast, his fingers digging into her hip as he withdrew from her liquid heat.

"Something like that," Buffy said breathily, her hand reaching for his. "Don't stop."

"Don't stop?"

She nodded and wiggled, thrusting back to drive him deep inside her again. And Christ, she burned him so good he nearly wept. "Please."

Spike wasn't stupid; he knew almost immediately what was at play. She needed this as much as he did—she needed to hold onto the illusion of a dream in case the world in which they awoke wasn't as kind as the one they'd trusted in their sleep. When she declined to seek out her friends the night before, he'd understood at once that beyond her eagerness existed a fear he doubted even he could comprehend.

She might have lived in Hell for a thousand years, but it was all she knew. The life she'd had before was something foreign, almost imaginary, something she was still attempting to piece together. Something she likely wouldn't reconcile until years had rolled them forward and she realized she'd never again find herself in the shadows of the place she'd escaped. Only twenty years had been spent on the earth for which she'd fought—a sliver of the lifetime she'd paved in her wake.

And knowing this, Spike likewise knew he shouldn't give in. He should pull away, put on a brave face, summon the inner William and tell her everything would be all right. But Christ, he couldn't. His prick was wrapped in wet, hot velvet, her body shuddered and her hips rolled back against him—no, he couldn't say no.

"Like this, pet?" Spike murmured, thrusting shallowly into her tight pussy. His hand found her breast again, squeezing her warm flesh as his teeth nipped at her ear. "This what you need?"

Buffy nodded hurriedly. "More, more."

"Feel so good. So hot. So tight." He buried his face in her shoulder, maintaining a sound pace that felt somewhere between soft and desperate, somewhere between the tender adoration of the poet and the burning need of the demon. Since his body had rediscovered carnal delights, he hadn't appeased the monster within with the hard, brutal fucking it typically received. Not once had he given into his nature's darker urges, and while he in truth, would not have wanted it any other way with Buffy, a very large and very real part of him needed it rough.

The women in his past hadn't allowed him to make love. Now he had, and with the woman with whom it was meant to be shared, yet he couldn't change himself. He couldn't change the side of him that needed pain with his pleasure.

This likely wasn't the time for it. He just hoped Buffy would let him share that with her some day.

"My hot, tight slayer."

"Oh, God…"

"So good. So sweet." Spike pulled her tight against his chest, cock pumping steadily in and out of her body. The slippery feel of her flesh was enough to make any man question his religion, no matter his circumstance. For the first time in centuries, he felt the strain of his mortality. He felt every inch of his body as though waking up all over again—as though like his memory, sensory itself had merely hibernated until he returned.

"Spike…_Spike…"_

"Love your skin," he whispered, running his hand down her arm. "So soft. You're so soft all over. Oh, squeeze me like that, kitten. Put those muscles to good use."

"Spike?"

It took half a lust-addled second for the question in her voice to slice through the fog. "Sweetheart?"

"Is this real?"

His heart twisted. "Oh, Buffy…"

"It looks strange. Everything…ohhh…everything looks so…"

"That's daylight, love," he murmured, unable to stop thrusting. Not when she felt so sweet. Not with her tantalizing scent tickling his nostrils. Not with his fangs hungry and his body wound up with need. "Bleeding in through the blinds."

"Daylight?"

"Yeah. Bloody fortunate you had the blinds closed. Real sun, that is. Not what you're used to. And this?" He pressed her harder into the sheets. "This is what we call a real bed."

Buffy trembled hard. "This is real?"

"I promise."

"Let me see you."

He had her flipped under him in a flash, cock plunging back into her before she had the chance to miss him. "See?" he rasped. He locked eyes with her, watching her watch him as their bodies rocked together. As the springs of the mattress whined under their movement, as the headboard clamored noisily against the wall. Every time he'd been with her, he swore he'd nearly burned alive, but it had never been a purer sentiment than right now.

"This is real," he promised again. "See me? Feel me, love? This is real."

Buffy whimpered softly, her hips crashing upward to meet him every time he pulled away from her pussy. "It doesn't feel…"

"Real?"

"I need it harder."

The demon purred in delight and his body was all too eager to oblige. "Oh yeah," Spike growled, his tongue unable to resist licking her lips. He drove deeper, faster, filling the air with the smack of battling flesh. Her eyes widened and her breaths came hard and quick, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"Fuck," he hissed. "Bloody dream come bloody true."

"What?"

"You. This. Your bed. Your…room…oh Buffy…" Spike stole a kiss from her lips. "Wanted this. Just this. Just like this. So much."

"Like…this?"

"Just this."

"W-why?"

Spike grinned and kissed her again, a moan scratching at his throat. Christ, she felt so good. So fucking sweet. A self-made heaven right here in Sunnydale, right between the sheets of Buffy's very own bed. Every time his cock dipped inside her perfect body, her vaginal muscles gripped and pulled, turning the dance into a needy tug-of-war. "Because," he murmured, "I love you."

"Why?"

"Why?" He bit at her lips and thrust harder. "Million. Fucking. Reasons. God, not gonna…" His every muscle had pulled taut like a drum, his balls tightening and a sweet burning bliss started tingling through his body. But he wasn't ready—he didn't want to let this moment go, didn't want to tumble from this high only to find himself in a place he'd once effortlessly navigated without the first idea how to proceed. He had to make this last.

This moment was the last one he'd have before everything came crashing down.

Without warning, he drew his thrusts to a halt. "Need…"

Buffy's eyes bugged comically. "What?"

Spike slipped out of her and quickly slid down her body. "Just want a taste," he whispered. "Just a taste."

"Spike, please, I need—"

"I know what you need." His arms hooked under her hips, lifting her pussy to his hungry mouth. "You smell amazing," he told her, nuzzling her soft curls and inhaling her spicy, musky scent. "Just like I thought…"

She arched her hips upward. "What? You've tasted…before…"

"Not like this. Not in your room." He grinned and dipped his tongue inside her, tentatively at first, but one taste was enough to make him feel parched. He explored her forever, and every lick pulled him away from himself and into a place where only she existed—a place where he had no purpose other than to devour her. He probed her hungrily, delving deeper, ravenous and needy. Her thighs closed around his ears and her cries became muffled, but he didn't slow down. He drank her, nipped at her, massaged her with his tongue, slurped up her honey and demanded more, losing himself so completely he couldn't care if he was found. Still, he somehow managed to hold onto his thought and keep it near the surface so he could tell her, "Not with you smelling like you do," by the time she'd likely forgotten the question.

"I…uhhh…what?"

Spike chuckled, tongue abandoning her opening to lap at her swollen clit. The sharp gasp that wrangled through her throat was music to his ears. "Your smell," he said. "Like Buffy."

"I am…_Buffy." _

"I know," he said, drawing a long line up her slit before settling on her tender pearl again. "And we're here."

"Spike…"

"Mmm." He sucked her clit between his lips and tugged, then resumed drawing lazy circles around her sensitive flesh with his tongue. It didn't take long for her body to grow taut, and in easy seconds she panted and gasped, her legs stretching down the course of his back and hitching in his skin. As she began to tremble in release, he lifted her onto his lap, positioned his cock at her opening, and coaxed her down until he was sheathed in warmth once more.

_"Oooh." _

"Love the way you feel when you come."

Buffy stretched her arms around his neck and drew his mouth to hers for a fiery kiss. "Oh, God…"

"Wanna come again?"

She shook her head hard. "Ohhh…_ohhh, _I can't."

"Let's see about that."

His hands fell to her ass, guiding her in long, slick strokes. His skin was painted in her sweat, his mouth peppering kisses across her shoulder and along her neck. So close, now. The urgency in his blood returned, raw need stringing through him like an old friend. Take the world away or give it back, this was something that wouldn't change. He would always have the dance. Spike's teeth skimmed her chin as he guided a hand between their warring bodies, settling so her clit would strike his thumb with every bounce.

"Feel it burning? Don't let it die, kitten. It wants one…more…"

"Spike…"

"Just a bit more."

"Bite me."

Spike's head reeled. He was sure he'd heard wrong. "What?"

"Like…before. The hope. Give it to me." Buffy tilted her head and gave him an eyeful of her racing pulse. "It felt so good. Please…"

There was no vampire on this plane or any other that would be able to resist. His fangs burst into his mouth, and he caught her eyes just before he lunged. The yearning, the anticipation that he glimpsed had him as high as a paper kite.

And the second her blood touched his lips, he spiraled into a chasm of pure bliss.

* * *

It took three attempts at a joint shower before Spike decided they would likely see better results if they went in one at a time. There was something about a wet, blushing Buffy sporting a fresh bite mark that forced him to shove her against the wall and sully her up all over again. After scrubbing himself clean and stealing a final grope of her breasts, he dried off, stepped into the hall, and waited for her to join him.

The honeymoon was about to end. Their intimate interlude had been a nice distraction, but the fact that the world around them hadn't blinked away in the light of morning confirmed they definitely weren't the only people in it, and Buffy needed to come to terms with it soon. He couldn't keep her to himself forever. And while he trusted what she'd told him regarding their future together, the nagging feeling wouldn't shut its mouth until proven wrong.

A thousand years could pass, but Spike doubted Buffy knew the sort of hold her friends had over her. The pattern might be old, but…

"Spike?"

He smiled and turned. Freshly bathed, sweet-smelling, towel-wrapped, and completely flushed. She was so beautiful.

"Can you help me pick what to wear?"

Spike stifled a laugh. "What's that?"

"I…ummm…haven't been around…clothes in a long time. I mean, rags and…whatever you dressed me in when we were…" Buffy sighed and turned away. He understood her reluctance to say it, especially now. The word likely seemed taboo. "Well…I don't…I just don't know what to wear."

He nodded, casting a glance to his own state of undress. In the attempt to keep from shagging her into oblivion every time he saw her, he'd similarly adorned a towel that rode very low on his narrow hips. Anything that might resemble something he'd typically wear was at least half a mile away in his Restfield crypt. He rather doubted there were clothes on the premises that would suit him.

"Makes two of us, love."

Buffy frowned. "You don't have anything here?"

"What?"

"I don't understand. I…" She stopped short and broke away with a laugh. "Wow, I can't believe…well, I guess you wouldn't have any stuff here. Because you and I didn't…I mean, we weren't…"

His brows perked. "Together?"

"There's the awkward word."

"Nothing awkward about it, ducks. We just weren't together."

"Well, that's dumb."

Spike's lips twitched. "Buffy…"

She shook her head and moved past him, her eyes falling on the doorway to her mother's bedroom. He thought about giving her a quick hint just in case her memory proved fuzzy, but ultimately decided to keep his mouth shut. She would find her way around…and he would always answer her if she needed to ask.

"This," she said slowly. "My…mother's?"

He nodded. "That's right."

"And she's gone." She shivered and crossed her arms. "I remember that."

The air in the hallway suddenly felt thick and he didn't know whether or not he should stand still or reach out and touch her. He couldn't know what emotional strain existed between moms and daughters, but he knew crawling out of Hell would likely send anyone straight into their mother's arms.

"I took a peek inside my closet," Buffy said at last. "Not much room."

"I think you were what they call a clothes horse."

"There'll be room enough for all our stuff in her closet, don't you think?"

Spike blinked at her for a few long seconds before he first processed the words, and then again once he realized her meaning. And then it was all he could do to keep from falling over in shock. "You…you want me…"

"What?"

"Buffy, did you just ask me to…" He blinked a few more times, eyes bouncing from her to the doorway. "Your mum's—"

"I know I can't sleep without you, and I don't want to try. I hope…this is okay, right? I mean, you don't want—"

He didn't know if he'd ever moved so fast. In a flash, he had her in his arms, his mouth closing over hers. She melted against him like hot wax, her lips parting, her tongue curling, her hands grasping his shoulders as though he were the anchor holding her to the world.

"Here," he whispered, fingers moving over her towel, "is the only place I've ever wanted to be."

She smiled gratefully, closing a hand over his to bring it to a stop. "We better not," she said. "Again, I mean."

Spike broke away almost immediately. "I know. Can't keep you all to myself, can I?"

"Point of being in a world full of people is occasionally seeing those people." Buffy expelled a deep breath. "Even if I'm terrified."

"No reason to be scared, love."

"We went over this…I don't know if I can be with people. I don't know if I can handle it."

"And I remember telling you it'll be all right."

Buffy licked her lips and glanced to the floor.

"It's all right," he said again. "You needed time."

"I had a thousand years. You'd think that'd be time enough."

"Sweetheart—"

"I've been hiding. Postponing. I've been playing make believe and thinking…" Buffy heaved a sigh and met his eyes again. "The only thing I'm sure of is that I'm here because of you…and you're the only person I know I won't lose myself around. I just…"

"You don't wanna hide but you don't wanna be seen?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"It'll be all right."

Buffy forced a smile. "Easy for you to say."

Yeah, he supposed it was. He just wished it was sentiment he shared.

"So, clothes?" she asked, wiggling a bit. "I have a whole closet full of them and no idea where to begin. Will you…"

"Stare blankly and nod appropriately?"

"Spike…"

His hands came up. "Kidding. Didn't spend half a century dressing Dru without picking up a thing or two."

"That was a long time ago."

"Like riding a bicycle, love. It all comes back."

She offered him a quick grin before turning to pad back toward her room, and Spike followed. Back into the place that had once been forbidden territory—a place he'd never thought he'd be welcome. A place she'd just asked him to call home.

Buffy's clothes were much the way he remembered. The ones he pegged as the oldest consisted of ridiculously short skirts and tops that left her more naked than covered. He found a few he could recall directly—the green skirt she'd worn during their first fight, the blouse she'd had on the night he chained her up, and several other choice pieces—and others he doubted he'd ever seen. In the end, it seemed futile to go to so much effort. No one had ever marketed the Escaped from Hell look as a fall line, and while he knew her concern over what to wear was something that came with being female, he likewise understood her friends wouldn't care if she came back wearing a kilt and a coconut bra, just as long as she came back.

"These," he said, pulling out a pair of faded jeans. "Seems right."

She held them up for inspection. "Seem big."

It was true. Just looking at the denim waist was enough to determine they'd fall right off her…though the same was true for anything in her wardrobe. "You'll grow back into them," Spike offered with a shrug. "They'll ride low, but there's nothing we can do about that now. You've filled out a bit since we…"

"Reconnected?" she volunteered.

That seemed as good a word as any. "Right," he said. "But it'll take time to get you looking the way you did."

"That's what happens when you eat just once a week," she reasoned. "And no, you're not off the hook for calling me fat." Shock rattled through his body, but before he could cry foul, she held up a hand and raised her twinkling eyes to his. "Kidding. I'm not _that_ sensitive."

"I'd bloody hope not."

"So jeans. Any suggestion what to wear with them?"

Spike grumbled and seized a long-sleeved black tee from her closet. It would be baggy, but he doubted she wanted to show off any skin. "So your mates don't stake me for your malnourishment."

"They won't stake you for anything."

"You figure?"

"You got me out of Hell, Spike. What could they possibly stake you for?"

"Shagging you while I was there?"

Buffy rolled her eyes, and while her flippancy amused him, he couldn't help but feel slightly concerned.

"Come on," she said, throwing her clothes over an arm. "There's a good chance my mom had some stuff that was my dad's."

It seemed like a long shot, but he was willing to play along.

This was likely as domestic as he'd ever get.

* * *

Buffy's hunt for male-targeted clothes ultimately led them to the basement, where she unearthed a large cardboard box with the name HANK scrawled across the side. While the man's wardrobe left a lot to be desired, Spike found a few random pieces that comprised something he thought looked like him, though the jeans were vastly over-sized and the shirts he'd selected—a wife-beater tank and a pale blue dress shirt—draped over him like sheets. True, they could always make a stop at his crypt on the way to the Magic Box, but that would only put another unnecessary step between them and the Scoobs. He'd love to pave as many as she liked; the part of him that had wizened up over the past three centuries knew better.

"Do we even know they'll be there?" Buffy asked as he neared the familiar sewer entrance he'd so often utilized before Glory's Tower. He found a pair of large boots nearby, which would work, if nothing else. He didn't particularly fancy walking through sludge with bare feet.

"Where's that, kitten?"

"At the shop?"

"They're not here, so they're there."

"And if they're not?"

"We try the Watcher's."

Buffy released a shaky breath and nodded, her eyes on the ground. "I have to do this."

He swallowed hard. "Right."

"You're making me."

"You want to."

"I'm scared."

"I know."

She glanced up and reached for his hand. "But you'll be with me."

"Every step of the way."

A small silence fell between them, and it felt different. It felt like an acknowledgement that everything was about to change again. The things they had shared would remain theirs, but the world waited outside. Everything was about to change in a way he couldn't comprehend. He hadn't been prepared to come back. He hadn't realized what it would entail, or how hard it would be.

Neither had she. But here they were.

"All right," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Buffy squeezed his hand and nodded, and though fear refused to fade, he saw a flicker of old courage cross her face. He loved her so much then he could barely stand it. "Let's go."

**To be concluded**


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's Note**: Well, here it is. The final chapter.

Thank you so much to everyone who has kept with me the past two years during the long breaks, the writer's block stint, my personal upheavals, and my affinity for cliffhangers. I've had a fantastic time with this and as hard as it is to say goodbye, I have my Seasonal Spuffy story to keep me company.

Thank you to my betas: **megan_peta**, **just_sue**, **dampersnspoons**, **dusty273**, **okdeanna**, **spikeslovebite**, **therealmccoy1**, and **elizabuffy**. You all have been fantastic. Thank you for sticking with me.

So here it is. Enjoy!

**Chapter Thirty-six**

He felt her anxiety as though it were his own—felt the desperate, restless rush of her pulse as her heart began thundering at a speed that seemed damn near unhealthy for a girl of her size. It was one of those uncomfortable scenarios in which he didn't know whether or not breaking the silence with conversation would relieve or worsen the tension, and he didn't particularly feel like running the risk.

It didn't matter the next second, for Buffy snatched the decision from him and made it her own. "I remember a blanket."

"What?"

"You. And a blanket. And fire. Sometimes—well, most of the time—with yelling."

Spike smothered a grin. "Yeah," he said. "All about making an entrance, see."

"A charbroiled entrance?"

"Took you by surprise, didn't it?"

Buffy nodded and reached for his hand, which he granted with giddy eagerness that made him feel nervous and love-struck. Every step they took toward the Magic Box felt like a ticking clock, signaling the tightening of a familiar noose. A little distraction right now might go a long way.

"I'm sure it took me by surprise the first time, and maybe the second if you were lucky."

"Watch the pride, love. Like I said, all about making an entrance."

"So that's the reason you chose the blanket and fire route. Because if you also have the whole town's sewer line mapped out, it seems like an unnecessary risk."

Spike shrugged a shoulder. "Look who you're asking, pet. Life's too short to play it safe."

"Not for you."

He tossed her a quick glance. "No, suppose not."

"And not for me, either."

His throat tightened. "Well, to be fair, we didn't know that till recently."

"Maybe not you. I've had it pegged for a while." Buffy blew out a deep breath and squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt, but he didn't flinch. He squeezed back and waited. A few seconds slid by before she spoke again. "It's kind of something you notice after forty years. I can remember now standing in front of a mirror…maybe the one at that one building…with the shower?"

Spike nodded and released a shaky sigh.

"Though it was probably another. I went into every building there about a thousand times, I think. Just looking…and hoping. But I'd stand in front of a mirror and look at myself, and while I knew I looked different, I also knew I wasn't getting any older on the outside." Buffy grinned, but there was noticeably no feeling behind it. "It was probably around my hundredth birthday when I realized I wasn't going to die."

"Good news for me, though," he offered, his voice choked. "Get you all to myself for a long bloody time, don't I?"

Buffy leaned her head against his shoulder and stroked his arm with her free hand. The move was so tender and familiar it nearly surprised him, but then there was so much of that between them now. And he truly doubted she would ever stop surprising him.

"Here it is, pet," Spike said, pulling her to a halt under the familiar sewer cover that led to the Magic Box basement. "Stop number one."

"Here?" she asked, her voice going up an octave. "You're sure? There are loads of other—"

"Buffy."

Her shoulders fell. "Well, on the plus side, they might not be here."

"Way to think positively." Spike smiled and stole a soft kiss off her lips. Focusing on calming her down was a nice little distraction from his own apprehension. "I'm right with you. You know that."

"I do. And…" She bit her lower lip. "I'm with you, too."

"I know."

"I hope so."

He kissed her brow, then her lips again. "I love you."

"I know."

"I know you know." Spike raised his eyes to the sewer cap and smiled. "Right then. Ladies first."

* * *

He knew it was the right place even before he heard their voices, and Christ, that was a bloody strange sensation. Beyond walking through the streets of a place he'd all but forgotten, beyond showering in Buffy's home, even beyond waking up in her bed, hearing people he hadn't heard in three centuries took the cake. He hadn't spoken with anyone who wasn't a demented guardian, the girl at his side, or a figment of his imagination since first seizing the rope that would lead him into Hell. Now he stood just a few feet from people—real people—and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how to proceed.

And then a scent he hadn't anticipated tickled his nostrils and he nearly stumbled in shock.

"Bloody fucking hell."

"What?" Buffy mouthed.

Spike's jaw tightened but he ignored her. Instead, he peeked around the corner and spied the lot of them sitting around the tables grouped in the back. They popped out like creatures in a picture book, crisp and clear and more real than even he had anticipated. Willow was standing beside a chalkboard, a pointer stick in her hand. Giles, Xander, Anya, and Tara around one table, and Angel and a dark-haired woman at another. On the board in inelegant writing were the words, "Rule of Three."

"All right," Willow was saying. "So…well, we've effectively proven that you really can't write the rules down. Not in this dimension, anyway."

"Something I've only been saying for the past week," Anya mused, her tone bored. "No one here ever listens to me. Why is that?"

"But we've also managed to do a bit more research on one of the rules." The redhead turned to Angel. "That one about promises. I've looked in every book I could get my hands on since we sent Spike into Hell, and the only thing I've been able to find is that promises made to a creature of the underworld are—"

"Binding contracts," Angel said. "Yeah. Two years dealing with Wolfram and Hart have pretty much drilled that one in."

Giles cleared his throat. "We were concerned for the first day or so that Spike might…make promises to Buffy should he find her."

Angel's expression darkened and his mouth formed a tight line. "I doubt that's something anyone could resist, given the circumstances." His eyes darted between Willow and Giles. "So promises are all right, so long as they're not made to something evil."

The redhead shrugged. "Well, I'm not saying go promise-crazy or anything, but I'd focus less on that and more on the not accepting of things that are offered and not forgetting your name."

Buffy squeezed his hand, drawing Spike's attention from the meeting and back to her. She looked less anxious now and more confused, though there were sparks of ire within those green eyes, as well. He hadn't realized until that second just how annoyed he was until she coaxed a grin out of him.

"Now or never?" she mouthed.

"Want to run for it?" he mouthed back.

She pretended to think before nodding. Then, firing him a brave grin, cleared her throat and rounded the corner.

"What's this?" she said conversationally. "Giving up on the first search team already?"

It was likely the strangest thing he'd ever witnessed, and in his time, that was definitely saying something. Several seconds elapsed between the words livening up the air and making their target, as though Buffy were invisible or trying to communicate through a sheet of plate glass. Willow nearly jumped out of her skin, frowned, blinked, and took a step forward as though sure her eyes would reveal themselves to be frauds. Angel turned toward them with calm precision that betrayed just how surprised he was, and the rest of the Scoobies were on their feet in half a second, tearing up the floor between them with the energy of a small army.

"Oh, my God, Buffy!"

"What happened?"

"How did you…how are you here?"

"You look so—"

Buffy's hands came up and Spike felt her heart jump from racing to downright thunderous. "Hey, guys, can you please—"

They paraded right over her. It would have been funny were it not so predictable.

"Buffy, your hair…"

"You're so skinny."

"I don't get it. How are you—"

"Spike?" Buffy called, her voice nervous again. She wanted him, and he was there in a heartbeat.

He truly had no concept of how often he'd played this scenario over in his head until he stepped into the open. And there they were—the people whose faces had once blurred into a collage of mismatched colors and shapes. The Scoobies stared at him and he stared back. There were visible signs of surprise, but not the sort he would expect. They blinked dumbly as though trying to place him, then once remembering, seemed surprised he'd been gone at all. It took a few long seconds before true and solid comprehension set in—before the appearance of Buffy connected with his own return. Eyes traveled to his hair before making their way to his selection of clothing featuring Hank Summers's greatest hits. Spike let them stare; only a few days had passed for them, and he understood they wouldn't be on his page immediately. They wouldn't get it—they couldn't, and he granted that.

Spike met Buffy's eyes, though, and shrugged off her friends' scrutiny with careless ease. "Give the girl some breathing room, why don't you?"

"Spike?" Willow asked at last.

"Yeah, that's the name, Red. You know the rest." His gaze wandered reluctantly to Angel. "Why's he here? Need a consultant on the welcoming party?"

At that, the Scoobies exchanged semi-guilty but mostly flustered looks, which both satisfied his need to rub their faces in their doubts and infuriate the part of him that had always known the doubts existed in the first place. Determining the reason behind Angel's presence wasn't difficult, even without having overheard the meeting they'd interrupted. Still, Spike needed to hear it. He needed to hear, standing where he stood and after going to the end of the world and back, that they hadn't thought he had the stones to live up to his word. That they thought his feelings for Buffy—while real for _him—_didn't have the staying power of his soul-stuffed grandsire. He needed to hear it, knowing it'd do little more than piss him off.

"We, um, had a meeting last night," Tara said, her eyes glued to the floor. "A-and we decided…"

"Well, you see, Angel had already done the whole Hell thing once," Willow reasoned.

"We were concerned with the amount of time it was taking," Giles said calmly, though his cheeks were a bit pink. "We hadn't heard from you—"

Spike snorted. "Funny thing about Hell. They don't have a payphone."

"Oh," Buffy mused, her eyes drifting back to Angel. "Okay. So you're here…because of me." She turned to Spike, shaking her head. "I thought I was losing it again. I could've sworn he'd moved away."

He smiled in spite of himself. "He did, love. Seems they called in dear ole daddy because yours truly wasn't getting the job done."

"What?" At that, her gaze grew wide and damn near accusatory. She whipped her head back to her friends. "How long has it been?"

They exchanged another series of uncomfortable glances. "Since you jumped?" Xander asked.

"No, since Spike—"

"Three days," the unfamiliar brunette offered, nodding at the witches. There was something familiar about her voice, but Spike couldn't quite peg it. "That's what they told us when they showed up."

"This is day four, to be fair," Willow muttered, thoroughly flushed.

Buffy blinked and stumbled back against Spike's chest. "Three days?"

"They were three very long days," Xander said. "It was just us waiting on word, and—"

Spike honestly didn't know how he lasted as long as he did. One second he was holding on to some semblance of control, and the next he'd completely cracked. A burst of laughter bubbled off his lips, manic and shrill, and before he knew it he was bracing his knees and cackling so hard his chest ached and his ears rang. He laughed until his throat hurt, until tears stung his eyes and his sides whined for relief. He wasn't the only one laughing; Buffy had collapsed against him, giggling with the same sort of insane despair he used to hear from Dru, only there was no humor in her. It was laughter for the sake of laughter, for if they didn't find the situation hilarious, they'd likely scream and throw things.

Perhaps he couldn't stop laughing because he knew it wasn't funny, or because he knew the Scoobies didn't get it. Every time he tried to seize control of himself, he'd glance up to their dumbfounded faces and cave in again. It was a battle he couldn't win.

"I think Buffy might need help," the brunette muttered to Angel.

"Three whole days?" Buffy demanded at last, standing up straight and wiping tears from her eyes. "Yeah, that…umm…that's rough. That's just…wow, waiting. For three days."

Willow looked wounded, as did Xander and Giles. "We were worried!" the redhead exclaimed.

"You don't know what it was like here!" Xander argued.

"I told them you had it under control," Anya said irritably.

Buffy ignored her, focusing instead on Harris. She had on one of her 'if looks could vaporize' expressions—one of which Spike had so often been on the receiving end. "We don't know what it was like?"

Angel took a diplomatic step forward. "Buffy—"

"It took three hundred years for Spike to make it to my world," she said. "Three _hundred_ years! And then we were there for…how long?"

Several seconds passed before Spike realized the question was aimed at him. "A few days, maybe," he said. His thoughts tugged him back to the alley where he'd first cornered her, at the image of a terrified Buffy clawing at the wall and trembling at the sight of someone else in her abandoned city. His chest tightened and he swallowed. "Seemed longer."

Buffy nodded solemnly and reached for his hand. "A lot longer," she said.

"Three hundred years?" Giles asked, his voice shaken. "You were…alone…for three hundred years?"

Spike watched as his lady's expression softened and her defenses began to fall. The hand holding his, however, refused to let go. "It was…ahhh…" Buffy licked her lips, at once seemingly very aware of herself. "I…"

"Longer," Angel supplied softly. "It was longer for you, wasn't it?"

She nodded and pressed herself more firmly against Spike's chest. "Yeah," she said. "It was."

"I'm sorry, Buff," Xander said. "We didn't mean to…"

"We just wanted to get you back," Willow agreed. "It must've been…I can't imagine."

"You don't want to," Spike volunteered, eyeing the brunette again. "Saw your special meeting, by the way. Buffy's guardian decided to give me a peek on the last day. Knew the cavalry'd be coming soon. Or figured it. So you phoned up Angel and—"

"We drove," Tara said. "Willow and I. Last night."

"It wasn't the sort of thing you ask over the phone," Willow explained. "They were settling in this new girl they pulled from another dimension and then Cordy got a vision—"

Comprehension dawned and several puzzle pieces made their lazy way to the surface.

Apparently, Buffy experienced her own eureka minute. Her widened eyes landed on the girl next to Angel, and she'd exclaimed, "Cordelia!" before she could stop herself.

The brunette blinked. "Yeah?"

"Sorry," Buffy offered self-consciously. "I was having trouble…my memories are a bit on the shaky side."

Spike shrugged. "I knew she looked familiar."

"Gee, thanks," Cordelia noted with a frown.

Willow smiled awkwardly. "She gets visions now," she said. "And she had a vision about a big nasty demon guy and…well, Buffy. And this cave-like—"

"Larry," Spike murmured. "Guess she saw the boy chuffing it."

The redhead looked confused but nodded all the same. "We thought since she had a vision of, well…that demon thing, she might have better insight into what Buffy was going through."

"Sounds like she caught the end of the show and missed the good bits."

Xander cleared his throat. "Who's Larry?"

"Guardian type. The one who set up the hoops I had to jump through to make it to her dimension."

There was nothing for a long, uncomfortable minute. It seemed no one knew what to say.

Then Giles stepped forward, his eyes heavy with a sort of paternal emotion Spike had never once experienced. Still, the look was unmistakable—for all that was said and remained yet to be said, nothing could eradicate the soundness of the moment. He supposed it was shattering for them, too. For the whole bloody gang—the reality of what came with the thing they'd wanted so much. Buffy stood at arm's distance, but she wasn't the same girl they'd known. There really had never been a chance of getting that girl back. No one could experience Hell and emerge unchanged.

It would take understanding, patience, and time.

"Buffy," Giles said softly. "Are you…is it really…"

Perhaps he didn't want to know the answer, or perhaps he couldn't bear the need to ask; either way, his voice broke off just in time for Buffy to inhale sharply and launch herself into her surrogate father's arms. And just like that, everything came crashing down. Defenses fell and tears began to pour. The watcher held his slayer for a long time before turning her to Willow, then Xander, Tara, even Anya briefly, Cordelia, and finally Angel. They hugged it out, crying and sputtering words that felt cliché but right somehow—like the sopping end of some family sitcom where the big misunderstanding resulted in a life lesson learned well.

Buffy hugged her friends and wept, and he watched. He watched her smile and cry, watched as the people who loved her almost as much as he did surrounded her, took her into their arms and sobbed into her hair.

His girl was home. He'd brought her home. He'd brought her back where she belonged.

When Buffy looked at him, he read a thousand things in her eyes—things she wanted to tell him. Things she wanted to express. Yet there weren't words enough for this, and he knew that. So he stood and watched, and warmed with the knowledge he'd given her back to herself.

* * *

They didn't want to leave her, not even to collect Dawn. It seemed they thought she would vanish if they took their eyes off her. However, the concerned parent in Giles eventually prevailed over selfish worry, and he broke himself away from the group long enough to give Janice's house a ring to let them know he was on his way to pick up the overnight guest. And though he didn't tell the girl why it was necessary to call her sleepover to an end, the giddiness in his voice likely did the trick.

Spike had taken a seat on the stairs that led to the restricted, personal-use books Giles kept on hand. Buffy sat just a few feet away at a table with Willow, Tara, Xander, and Anya. Angel hadn't said much since the group hug, though the look in the elder vampire's eyes forewarned he wanted to give Spike a talking-to before he and the cheerleader took off for Los Angeles.

Once the watcher was gone, Willow broke away from the group and made her way toward him, her eyes filled with a mixture of happiness and contrition. "Hey," she said.

"'Lo yourself."

"I just wanted to…ummm…"

His brows perked. "Thank me?"

"I guess those are the words I'm looking for, yes." She reddened, then held up a finger. "Just a sec, I need to go get something."

Spike had honestly forgotten how quick people moved here. He'd gotten used to walking lonely streets with Buffy, running after her, hunting boars, and chasing down whispers that had no voice or form. Real people, however…people without a predisposition to superpowers and the like, he'd completely forgotten how fast they were. How fast the world moved when he lived in it. He'd grown accustomed to time dragging out every second. Speed was something foreign—something he'd have to get to know all over again.

Just as quickly as she disappeared, Willow turned up again, a worn leather coat in her arms. "We had this in the training room," she said. "Just in case, you know. We weren't going to give it to Dawn unless we knew for sure you weren't coming back."

He blinked stupidly. "What…"

"Your duster. You took it off before you left? You said Dawn could…" Willow frowned. "You don't remember your duster?"

Spike inhaled sharply and shook his head. "'Course I remember my duster. Just been a while since I had it on, is all." He reached for it and she dropped it lovingly into his arms. Soft leather smelling of booze and smoke kissed his skin. He'd truly thought he'd never see it again.

"I don't know what happened," Willow said, jarring his attention back to her. "But I know it was bad."

Spike's mouth tugged into a grin, his mind flashing him back. "Heard that before."

"And I don't know if Buffy's gonna want to tell us anytime soon, but thank you. For the record, I always knew you could do it."

His eyes narrowed at her. Willow wiggled appropriately.

"I did," she insisted. "Getting Angel was _so_ not my idea. Xander was just with the extra wiggins and worried about Buffy."

Spike nodded. "I get that," he said. And he meant it.

Even if he resented the shit out of it.

Whatever the redhead wanted to say next was stolen off her lips by the timely chirp of the shop's bell. All chatter fell silent. Dawn stood in the doorway.

Her eyes found Buffy. Buffy rose from her seat.

"Oh, God," she murmured.

It was impossible to tell who moved first. In seconds, they were in each other's arms, crying and hugging and babbling a million things between sobs that no human being could possibly decipher, but they seemed to understand each other. And though he'd granted this honor to a million things of lesser significance since climbing to freedom, watching Buffy break down in her sister's embrace was worth any trial he had to suffer. These were girls who shouldn't be apart, girls who bickered and fought hard, but cried and loved harder.

"Don't do that again," Dawn blubbered. "Never do that again."

Spike slipped on his duster. It felt bigger than he remembered.

When Dawn spied him over Buffy's shoulder, she blinked in surprise but quickly motioned for him to join them. The part of his heart that belonged to the Summers' women twisted.

"You brought her back," Dawn said, sobbing, and launched him into a bear hug the second he was within range. "Thank you, thank you for bringing her back."

Buffy smiled a watery smile and met his eyes.

She looked more like herself right now than she ever had.

* * *

The second the sun dipped below the horizon, Spike stepped onto the curb in front of the shop, shoved his hands into his duster pockets and sighed.

Long bloody day. Fucking surreal day. He kept expecting to blink and find himself somewhere else, but the reality remained the world wasn't going to change. He'd been back on solid ground for nearly twenty-four hours now, though it seemed years had passed since waking up in Buffy's bed that morning. He hadn't had a chance to take her aside or ask how she felt—ask any of the burning questions lodged in his throat. It wasn't fair, he knew, but he needed to know where he was sleeping tonight. He needed to know she was all right—that the fear she'd expressed before had truly abated, for he didn't want to step too far away in case she needed him.

However, judging by the hugs and tears, she was handling it just fine. Finer than fine.

Spike's hands curled around a familiar carton in his pocket. "Well, hello," he said, drawing out the half pack of fags he must have had on him before shedding the coat at the Hellmouth. His other pocket revealed a pack of motel room matches. Seemed about right. He remembered having a lighter on him at one point over his journey, but figured it was rusted and useless. Three hundred years did a lot on a cheap piece of plastic.

He wedged a cigarette between his lips and lit up. It tasted funny. Familiar, yes, but not in the way he remembered. Perhaps he'd left his affinity for smokes in the underworld with his lighter.

Then again, an eternity was a long time to rediscover an old habit.

Spike finished off his cigarette and chucked the butt to the ground. Yeah, this felt familiar too. The next twenty years would likely be spent dissecting a series of moments lost in déjà vu. Every little thing would remind him of something he'd experienced in the underworld. And this—the silence, the solitude—would remain, as well.

The door behind him flew open and shut again.

"Couldn't wait, could you?" Spike asked.

"I guess not," Angel replied, stopping at Spike's side. They didn't look at each other.

"This where you threaten to send me back to Hell if I sully her virtue?"

"No."

"'Cause, mate, gotta tell you—"

"I saw the bite mark, Spike."

"Mmm hmm." He kicked idly at the curb. "So that's it, then? You're just gonna—"

"I forgot how quick you were to jump to conclusions."

"And I forgot how much of a wanker you are. Or no…I guess I just wish I had."

Angel huffed a laugh and slid his hands into his pockets. "She told us," he said. "Well, as much as I think she could. She told us about you. About what happened."

Spike tossed him a glance, but it was brief. "Just now?"

"Yeah. I think she was waiting for you to make yourself scarce. Something about not wanting you to feel self-conscious." He paused. "And here the Spike I remember seemed to love the attention."

"Things change. You oughta know."

"I do know. I just never thought I'd hear you say those words and mean them."

"Neither did I, I guess. Not until her."

Angel nodded. "Xander told me it was last year. You started following her…chained her up and offered to kill Dru to prove you loved her."

"Doesn't sound nearly as romantic when you say it like that." Spike smiled a thin smile. "It wasn't until after, I don't think. Christ knows it's all jumbled. I remember most everything, except a few blurry details here and there. I know it started as infatuation or what all…but it became…"

"I know what it became."

He snorted. "Do you, now?"

"You don't let yourself starve for three centuries out of infatuation." Angel sighed and turned to face him at last. "Look, I didn't come out here to pick a fight, whatever you might think. And for what it's worth, I told Willow that if you'd gone after her, you wouldn't stop unless you were dead."

Spike felt a pang of shock but didn't let it show. "Yeah?"

"You're annoying like that. Persistent."

"Thanks ever so."

"I also know how obnoxious you are when you're in love."

"Stop it, Pops, I'm blushing."

"And I know she loves you."

Spike froze and swallowed hard. "Well," he said slowly. "Try not to look too glum. She hasn't confirmed it one way or another. Little promise we had. There's a good chance it could be gratitude."

"No, there's not. I know gratitude, Spike. I also know the way Buffy gets when she's in love. All day today she kept shooting little glances your way—the same ones she used to give me…only they were different." Angel glanced away as though the words in his throat were choking him. "They weren't a teenager's. It was…it was real."

At that moment, it seemed just as likely that instead of making it back to the world in which they belonged, Spike had instead led Buffy into a parallel universe filled with people who looked and sounded like the friends she'd had and the people she'd cared about. Not once in his three hundred years of waiting, in the many apparitions that visited his prison had Spike played out a scenario in which he succeeded in stealing Buffy's heart and wasn't staked for the crime.

"Not saying I approve," Angel said quickly. "Just for clarity's sake."

Spike nodded. "Of course."

"Good."

Things fell silent between them, but oddly, it wasn't awkward or uncomfortable. It was just quiet.

Then the shop door opened again. Giles and Xander piled onto the sidewalk, each looking a bit flustered.

Spike tossed them a bemused glance. "Moving the party out here, then?"

"We thought you'd left," Xander said quickly.

"Not so lucky, gents," he replied. "Not leaving without my lady."

Giles nodded. "Yes, Buffy indicated as much. She said you'd stepped outside." He paused and cleared his throat. "Spike…as much as it pains me to say this…"

"Your hair looks really weird."

Spike shot Xander a narrowed look, one mirrored by Angel.

"Sorry," the boy said. "Off topic."

Giles made a small noise in the back of his throat. "Yes, well," he continued. "I just…I was wrong. About a lot of things, and…well…thank you."

Spike blinked. "What?"

"You brought her back, and you went to astounding lengths to do so. Thank you."

Xander nodded and punched his arm. "Thanks. Oh, and it's gonna take a while to get used to, so…if I call you Dead Boy and stuff, just…call it habit. You had three centuries to…well. Yeah."

"Very articulate, Xander," Giles noted.

"What can I say? I'm a wordsmith." Harris nodded and grinned like a loon, eyeing Spike one last time. "It's gonna take some getting used to."

"What is?" he asked.

Angel frowned. "I thought Dead Boy was my nickname."

"He lost the bleach. Can't call him Captain Peroxide anymore."

Spike took a step forward. "What's going to take some getting used to?"

The door opened again, and this time Buffy stepped out. She looked better than she had in days, though Spike knew he was the only one who could see it. Her cheeks were still thin, but they had color in them now. And her eyes, while they'd shone brightly for him, sparkled with new life neither one of them had anticipated. She looked so beautiful then—so perfect.

And her eyes were on him.

"Guys," she said. "Can you…give us a minute?"

He expected a fight, but there was none to be had. The others shuffled back into the Magic Box without a word. Then it was just them—Spike and his slayer. Her long black tee hung off her wiry build, her dark brown hair brushed over one shoulder. The steps she took toward him were meaningful and deliberate.

"I told them," she said. "Not everything, but mostly everything. About you, what you went through. What happened once you got to me."

Spike nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah?"

"I just couldn't stop, you know? I started talking and I couldn't stop. It all just came out." She sighed and crossed her arms. "I didn't think I'd be able to talk about it for a while."

"It helps in getting over it, I think."

Buffy pursed her lips and took another step forward. "Maybe. Yeah, that sounds right." Things fell silent for a few seconds. Her eyes wandered down his leather clad body, a smile tickling her lips. "Your duster."

"Will had it. I'd given it to her…to give to Dawn. Just in case."

"You look like you again. Or more like you."

"So do you." He nodded at the store. "Being with them is who you are, love. No reason to fear it after all, I guess."

"I guess." Buffy sighed and took another step forward. "Spike, I told them about us. About…I told them about hope and Larry, and about you moving in. I told them that's the way it was going to be, and there's not going to be an argument."

He snorted. "Sure that went over well."

"It did, actually. I pulled the 'I'm a thousand years old so don't argue with me,' card." Her eyes actually twinkled when she shrugged. "Dawn's ecstatic, of course…though I don't know if she gets the whole immortality thing. And the others…they don't understand completely, but I think they get it enough not to complain about it. I guess it would be strange to turn around and see us in a relationship…they didn't have the time we had."

She stepped forward again. Any closer and she'd be in his arms.

"I told them something else," she said.

"Did you?"

"Yeah." Buffy's eyes fluttered to his lips before meeting his again. "I told them I love you."

How often had he fantasized about hearing the words? How often had he played it out? A thousand different ways, a thousand different scenarios, but nothing matched the moment's perfection. Standing under the stars with Buffy staring into his eyes, her heart open to him. He'd never thought he'd reach anything comparable to unadulterated bliss beyond the sins of the flesh, but at once he knew exactly what she'd felt when he bit her. He knew exactly what she'd experienced before the world came crashing down, and it was a wave so potent, so powerful, he would have washed up in the tide were he not careful.

Spike blinked hard. She'd told him not too long ago she wanted to tell him, she'd given him a crumb of hope back in the warehouse, yet he'd never really believed it. He'd promised himself he'd fight to keep what he'd been given, but a part of him had doubted. Even that morning, he'd waited for the other shoe to drop. He'd made love to her, tasted her blood, and admitted the possibility that her home would be his, but he'd held out. He'd waited.

And now there was this.

"You…"

"I love you, Spike. So much it's kinda scary. But, you know, in a good way."

"You love me."

"You knew it."

"I worried—"

"I know." Buffy smiled and leaned into his kiss. She tasted warm and delicious. She tasted like home. "I told you," she said after breaking apart. "I told you I wanted to tell you."

"But we couldn't let it be gratitude."

"It wasn't. I knew it then, but I needed this. I love you."

"God, I love you, too."

"Then come back inside with me." Her hand found his and tugged gently, and he followed without hesitation. He'd follow her anywhere. "Come talk with them. They have so much they want to ask you."

"They do?"

She nodded. "And then we'll go home."

"Home."

"Yes."

"Our home."

Her smile grew and she kissed him again. "That's the one."

Their fingers intertwined and their palms touched. And together, they walked back inside.

**The End**


End file.
